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BY DR. T. WILKINS. 



CHICAGO: 
THE PROGRESSIVE THINKER PUBLISHING HOUSE. 



LIBKARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 9 \9Q'6 

Copyriitnt jintry 
CLASS Ow KXC, No, 
COPY d. J 






Copyright 1908 

by 
Timothy Wilkins 



A poet is a psychic keyed to crave 
The depth of all that is of life; 
And is attuned to catch the softest wave 
Of love, or crash of hate and strife; 
And, too, to sense the dismal gloom and 
woe, 
And grim despair, the groans of pain, 
The selfishness and greed, the passions 
low, 
The lofty mountain heights, the plane 
O'er which his flitting soul must glide in 
glee. 
Or perish with his brother's thirst. 
He must all beings sense, and feel, and 
be, 
And set to rhyme, or fill and burst 
The earthly bonds and gently fly away. 
He lives in touch with all life's plan; 
With every plant along his dreamy 
way. 
From obscure monad unto man. 




DR. T. WILKINS. 
(Photo Taken 1890.) 



INTRODUCTION. 



For years my effusions have appeared in the columns 
of The Progressive Thinker, and a few in other spiritual- 
istic and secular papers, and if in the selection of poems 
for this volume I may chance to omit some special poem 
that any reader might earnestly wish for, it will make me 
regret that the size of this first book could not have been 
large enough to contain all, and will gladly add the same 
to the second volume. 

It is in compliance with a continuous appeal from the 
admirers of my poems that I publish this volume, and not 
with the hope of any enormous income from it; how- 
ever, the world may be wanting it right now, and in need 
of its rhythmical philosophy, sarcasm, pathos, wit and 
emotion. 

Rhymes began coming my way at a very early age, in 
my school-boy days, 

When childhood laughs at deeper woes, 

And weeps o'er trifles as it goes; 

When star-eyed Fate winks "googoo eyes," 

And makes in youth love-passions rise; 

When high ambitions rise and fall. 

And cupid makes his morning call, 

When pride and vanity entwine, 

And souls to mating first incline, 

These inspirations sweetly came 

With innocence and hunger's flame. 

Some were written as early as at the age of 12, a few 
of which I shall scatter through this and future volumes, 
because they are sacred to the memory of my early child- 
hood and recall some beautiful days, that make me once 
more breathe over the pure air of those sweetest days and 



2 INTRODUCTION. 

hours of my life, and breathe into the reader some of the 
same music. These may read young and immature, but 
they were from a young soul, in love with the Universe, 
and a brain attuned to the rhythmical vibrations of the 
eternal spheres of life and love. 

Many of these poems have never been in print; just 
caught, recorded and laid aside, perhaps for this occasion; 
but at the time they were received, often the flow of in- 
spiration was too great for my facilities for publishing, 
and were crowded back by others more appropriate to 
existing incidents and the times in which they were 
written. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 



I was born at Mineral Point, Wisconsin, June 11, 1849, 
about three months after the birth of Modern Spiritual- 
ism, and my knowledge of the same began with a boy- 
ish curiosity, and yet a deep instillation of the sacred side 
of the phenomena, when my parents, both believers, held 
circles in the home at Bedford, Iowa, inviting a few 
friends to join them in the investigation of the rappings 
and tippings, as they called them. This was along in 
1856 or 1857, and perhaps 1858, when the town was new 
and they were new in it, but they were both life-long 
Spiritualists, till they passed on, and have appeared to 
me in person, v/hile I was in a semi-trance, and while 
fully conscious. 

At one time in life, covering several years, I was un- 
consciously entranced, and did a little public work, but 
with the exception of magnetic treating, never for pay. 
I know I am mediumistic, but of recent years it has seem- 
ingly evolved into poetical inspirations. These conditions 
are very trance-like, often lasting for days at a time, and 
until the "muse" has written as it wishes. Sometimes a 
wave of sadness floats in upon me when all is well with me 
and no cause for such condition — it is the nearness of the 
"muse" — and just as often another kind of wave is felt 
— and the tone of poem can easily be indexed by these 
waves if noted and heeded. I have shed tears through 
the receiving of whole poems in many instances. 

My school education ended at about the age of IG, 
when I began to look through the list of trades and pro- 
fessions accessible in a small country town, and after 
trying the harness trade, and a little of the carpenter 
trade, I drifted into the printing business, where I have 
received the rest of my education. Have been up and 
down financially— principally down, as ever has been the 
case with most poets, whose success comes after their 
transition and their work becomes popular. 

Poets are seers who live beyond their day, and some 
beyond their means, as is gleaned from biographies. 

There is a tangible and an intangible expression of 



4 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

appreciation of the works of authors. The tangible con- 
sists of cash received for the worli, and the intangible 
is that which may be feebly expressed and deeply felt in 
the soul. The first helps sustain and encourage the 
author, and the second lives on and on, and makes him 
better off dead than alive, by making his works popular 
when he is gone. 

In my inmost soul I hope these poems may gladden the 
hearts of the readers and help make life worth living. 

If, when my earthly career comes to a close, I can be 
conscious that I have produced more smiles than tears; 
more sweet and loving thoughts than anger and hatred; 
more peace and harmony than ripples of passion and dis- 
cord; I shall pass to the higher life with a light spirit and 
a feeling of sublime satisfaction indeed. 

To put it in poetical form — 

I'll soon be done with this old form, its passions and its 

pain. 
And I shall hope my labors here shall be somebody's gain. 
If I can lift some downcast soul up from its couch of 

gloom, 
I know it will advance me some in growth beyond the 

tomb. 

If I can bring glad smiles to those whose eyes are filled 

with tears, 
I shall not feel my life on earth a term of wasted years. 
If I can soften some hard heart and give it higher aim. 
When I pass on I know that I shall be quite glad I came. 

If I can light new fires where the fuel has burned low 
"Within the human breats, I'll be content to quit and go. 
If I can cool some fevered soul, all fired up with hate, 
I then shall feel my life's success, and feel my mission 
great. 

If I can strew the paths of men and women while I stay, 
With bloominng thoughts and love, I shall be glad I passed 

this way. 
If I can make more light for those in darkness, striding on 
I shall, I know, remembered be and loved when I am gone. 

May angels bless you, one and all, is my prayer. 

DR. T. WILKINS. 




ELIZABETH WILKINS. 
(Mother.) 





CUTLER WILKINS. 
(Father.) 



MRS. M. C. PRATT. 
(Sister Kate.) 



DEDICATORY. 



To my Mother and My Father, and my spirit Sister Kate, 
And to all the other kindred in the higher spirit state, 
I here dedicate these poems, as a token of my love, 
As a portion of my mission ere my spirit goes above. 

I have sought within these stanzas something truthful to 

portray; 
Something cheerful and uplifting that might drive the 

frowns away. 
If the reader catches glimpses of the caustic here and 

there, 
'Gainst the blinding superstitions, he may only treat it 

fair. 

To the world I gladly give it as 'tis given unto me, 
A wee message from the Spirit of the Universe set free. 
As a bit of inspiration from the world's sublimer side, 
As a strain of cheerful music that comes floating with the 
tide. 

If I had a million dollars to procure the poor their food, 
I might be a greater factor for disseminating good; 
But as that is not my fortune I shall do the best I can 
With my poems and my jingles, for the soul of fellowman. 

It has been my aim to render unto mortals in these lines, 
All the jewels, bright and precious, from the spiritual 

mines 
That my soul could grasp and fashion to the music of the 

muse. 
And for any fault or failure I shall offer no excuse. 

All must take it as they find it, in small doses or in whole. 
For it is the scintillation of a warm poetic soul 
That has only love and pity for all other beings here. 
And 'tis given as the breathing of the universal sphere. 

THE AUTHOR. 



INVOCATION. 



Thanks to Thee, oh, Perfect Soul ! 
Thanks to Thee, Stupendous Whole ! 
Oh, Thou Infinitude, whom to name 
Would seem narrow and make the same 
As man, a person, a finite being, 
Instead of an all-wise and all-seeing, 
All-pervading, energizing force; 
Father and Mother, and all-life source, 
Whom to feel, or hear, or name, or see. 
To cramp, compel or span would be; — 
Except to see in Nature's form. 
In Winter's cold and Summer's warm. 

In fields of grain and barren plain; 

In giant oak so tall; 
In towering hill and rippling rill; 

In Niagara's fall; 
In little ant and elephant; 

In eagle, proud and grand; 
In mad cyclone and calmest moan 

Of gentle zephyr o'er the land; 
In all things see universally 

Thy hand and voice and mind; 
All things in Thee, of Thee must be 

Adapted to its kind. 

Hence, oh. Wisdom, Power, Love, 
We below to Thee above 
Must look for all we would obtain. 
And asking know 'twould be in vain 
To ask Thy aid for things to feed 
Our morbid appetite or greed. 
We know that Thou wilt not digress 
Prom law to grant mere happiness, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Or note a selfish made request 
That granting would not be the best. 
We know the just and unjust too, 
Of men, receive the blessings due. 
And more than due, as oft would seem 
To mortal eyes; but Thou dost beam 
Thy sunlight warm on everything, 
And send the blessed showers of Spring 
To each and all just at the time 
And in proportion as the clime 
Demands — not to each notion; 
But by planetary motion. 
By and through a law so true 

That no mistake can be; 
A force within a law that's been 

In all eternity. 

We would not speak the useless words, 

But pray in songs like happy birds; 

Pray in keeping Earth in tune 

To sweetest songs of sweetest June; 

Waft the fragrance of a soul 

Back to Thee, Stupendous Whole. 

Pray to Thee as one of Thee, 

Clothed with man's identity; 

Wanting, yearning, always hoping, 

Grasping, clinging, onward groping 

Darkly through a stage of action. 

Governed by the law: Attraction. 

Knowing naught can ever be 

Mine that was not made for me; 

Ever giving, ever taking. 

Ever helping in the making 

This a better place — our Mother Earth- 

For coming souls to have their birth. 

Ever praying, always staying 

In the pathway for us made; 
Always acting and attracting. 

By impressions well obeyed; 
Ever blending and extending 

And exchanging loving deeds; 
Ever seeking to be speaking 

Words to still another's needs. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

We pray for others in our prayer, 
And seek our brother's true welfare; 
We have no prayer but that would bring, 
If answered, to each living thing 
Its own; just that and nothing more; 
For only that We Thee implore, 
And asking thank for that obtained 
That was our own, in Nature gained. 



HARMONY. 



'Tis not all sound in tune and time 
That makes this universe sublime. 
Although the sound must ever be. 
When in accord — a Harmony 

Go watch the pebbles restlessly 
Roll on the beach, washed by the sea; 
Go watch the leaves unfold, and nod 
Obeisance to their mother sod, 
And kiss the summer sun, and see 
If there you find no harmony. 

Go watch the morning sun arise 
Amid the clouds that paint the skies; 
Go feel the noontide sunlight, warm — 
Or twilight's silent, soothing charm — 
Hear Nature's loving evening prayer, 
And note harmonic action there. 

Go watch the twinkling stars 
That peep through heaven's bars; 

Or watch the storm that sweeps across the sea; 
Then watch the billows leap 
And plunge, and roll the deep; 

Then watch the calm, and feel the harmony. 

Watch the pure white flakes of snow, 

The crystal frost and sleet; 
The freeze and thaw, the water flow 

In eddying retreat; 



10 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Imbibe the pure and bracing air 

The Spirit of the Free — 

Behold the Soul of Nature there 
In perfect Harmony. 

Go sense the potent voice of light — 
Nature's mate for patient night; 
Hear the whir in endless space, 
Of life — each atom in its place; 
Each form its time its work to do; 
Each soul its form and motive true; 
Each spirit, clad in clay or free — 
There find a World of Harmony ! 



THOSE VACANT PLACES. 



Oh, whither the friends that departed — 
Those bright, happy faces so dear — 

Who bowed to this world as they started 
In silence? Do they linger near? 

Where are our mothers' dear faces. 

That always brought peace and good cheer; 

That filled here so fully their places, 
Now vacant? Do they linger near? 

Those fathers whose lives were a gladness, 
That brushed back full many a tear 

From eyes of the loved ones in sadness, 
Now absent? Do they linger near? 

That brother who stayed but an hour. 

To bud and again disappear; 
That passed as a blighted wee flower 

Through earth-mold? Does he linger near? 

That sister whose life was a prayer; 

Whose voice was so tender and clear; 
Whose touch was of love and sweet care 

To others? Does she linger near? 

Those faces seem present and brighter; 

Those voices we oft seem to hear, 
And somehow our burdens are lighter 

To shoulder — when they linger near. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 11 

We know the departed still linger 

In memory's domicile here; 
And we feel the soft touch of a finger 

That comes from that mystical sphere. 

But still there are those vacant places — 
Like haunts we can scarcely endure — 

Where once were the dear forms and faces, 
That nothing can parry or cure. 



I KAINT PRAY ANY MO' 



I's prayed aroun' de mou'ner's bench, an' sung till I seed 

stars. 
But I nebber seed my Jesus, an' dey say he's ebrywhars; 
But ontil I knows he heahs me, till I knows it sartin, sho', 

I kaint hab no insprashun, an' I kaint pray any mo'. 

* 

I kaint see ez he's anse'ed any pra'r dat I has said; 
I kaint see ez he's pourin' any blessin's on dis head; 
I kaint see but I's ez ragged an' ez hongry ez befo'. 
An' my chillun's jist ez naked, an' I kaint pray any mo'. 

I's done ti'ed ob dis shoutin' an' a bawlin' roun' de throne 
War de rich hab got a cornah an' fo' bread dey gib us 

stone; 
I tells yo' dat I's quittin', an' dis heah haint no blow; 
Dat onless dar's sumthin' in it I kaint pray any mo'. 

I's a tott'rin' on my walkers, an' my har's a gitten gray, 
An' I kaint stay heah much longer in dis body anyway. 
An' I mout ez well be larnin' how to hoe out my own row. 
Mar's Jesus he won't help me, an' I kaint pray any mo'. 



THAT FACE ON THE WALL. 



Who could help loving that face on the wall — 
That face that is sweetest and kindest of all; 
That face that in kisses we fondly would smother; 
The face of that angel of peace — our mother? 



12 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

We look back to childhood, the days that are gone — 
Look into the future, the days coming on; 
But love the sweet present, for now is the time 
The face of our mother looks pure aand sublime. 

How faintly in childhood we dream of the pain, 
How feeble to fathom the worry and strain; 
How weak to relieve her of part of the load, 
Our patient old mother, o'er life's rocky road. 

But when we are mother or father, 'tis then 

'i'he truth is just dawning that no one again 

Could be to her children, through thick and through thin. 

So faithful and loving as mother has been. 

Just look at that picture, that kind, loving face; 

Just look at the silver now taking the place 

Of hair that was auburn, those furrows of care. 

And ask you this question: "What hurried them there?" 

Then question your spirit, aye, question your soul; 
"What face can more fully and truly console, 
When trouble and sorrow and anguish befall. 
Than the face of your mother that hangs on the wall?" 



GOD— MAN. 



Each long drawn breath that we inhale 

And exhale, is endowed 
With life in various forms, with male 

And female sex allowed. 

Each grain of sand and drop of sea, 
Each blade of grass so green. 

Each acorn, or its mother tree 
That is, has ever been. 

Each little mouse, and ant, and flea, 
Each thing both large and small, 

Animate or inanimate we see. 
Or cannot see at all, 

Is part of God, and has its soul 
Proportioned to its size, 



r 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 13 

That, evolving, grows, unrolls 
Eternal; never dies. 

Each unfolding, something molding, 

Throwing off in outer space. 
To be fashioned, and impassioned, 

To perpetuate its race. 

Each one burning with a yearning — 

Such as life itself inspires — 
In attraction and abstraction. 

That adjusting law requires. 

Each one throwing off and growing 

Towards the perfect of its kind. 
Each one clim.bing, clinging, climbing. 

All in one grand soul combined. 

One great surging and submerging 

Sea of life, of love, of soul; 
Of God, of Man: the latter an 

Epitome of the whole. 



LOVING THOUGHTS. 



We have need of aspiration and of inspiration too, 
And we love our angel guides who bring us aught. 

But the most essential angel in this world of dare and do. 
Is that silent little angel — Loving Thought. 

This world is full of trouble, whether borrowed, whether 
owned. 
But the people must this lesson once be taught: 
That their troubles can be lightened and their spirits 
sweetly toned 
If they listen to that angel — Loving Thought. 

It is human to get angry — it is better to forgive, 

It is easy to be just — as spirit ought — 
But a heaven we can fashion on the earth where now we 
live, 

If we only heed the angel — Loving Thought. 



14 DR. T. WILKINS' POEJMS. 

Let us listen to the voices of our dear ones over there, 
And appreciate the knowledge they have brought; 

But the dear ones in the body need a heaven bright and 
fair; 
Need a heaven and the angel — Loving Thought. 



AS WE MAKE IT WE WILL FIND IT. 



They say there's a land much fairer than this, 
Where the saints will eternally reign; 

And also a land of eternal bliss 
Excludes every semblance of pain. 

They say there's a land that is fairer than day, 
Which by faith we can see from afar. 

Oh, is there more joy just over the way. 
And pleasure, than just where we are? 

Is there no place on this earth that is fair. 
For those who are noble and true; 

For those who their comforts unselfishly share, 
To help unfortunate ones through? 

Is there no place where the harps can be played, 
And sweet songs can be sung on this plane. 

For the loving and kind whom nature delayed 
To finish with sorrow and pain? 

Are there no angels of love over here. 
This side of the dark, gloomy grave? 

No spirits of mercy to whisper good cheer 
To the noble, but down-trodden slave? 

Is there no sweetness in beauteous Spring; 

No soul-love in fragrance of flowers; 
No pleasure in seeing and touching some thing 

Produced by Earth's life-giving powers? 

In perfumes of Autumn, and Winter's pure air, 
And whiteness of fresh-fallen snow, 

Are there no inklings on earth anywhere 
That we may have heaven below? 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 15 

Is there no heaven in home harmony; 

No joy in the coo of a child; 
No sunlight in smiles, and wife's company; 

No bliss on this earth undefiled? 

Away with such visions ! There's sunlight and bliss 
As we make them, our pathway all o'er; 

The Spirit-land beauty but duplicates this; 
As we make it we'll find it — no more. 



HAB DEY QUARANTINED DAT MANSHUN? 



Oh, I wondah ef St. Petah, when I 'pears at dat big do', 
Jes' bekase my skin am cullud, will jes' pint me down 

below, 
Wid de ordahs for de sarvints, dat dey habn't eny room 
Up in hebben for dem "niggahs" till dere sperits am in 

bloom. 

Hab dey quarantined dat manshun 'gin de souls dat 

would git in, 
Kase de place am so infected wid de holy saintly skin? 
Hab dey closed de do' agin us dat hab alius been ajar, 
Fer de sperits dat am pures', an' no mattah who dey are? 

Do dey draw de line on cullah where de Faddah reigns 

above? 
Do de angels feel mo' partial fer de white man's soul ob 

love? 
Hab de Gawd of all dese nashuns made de cullah-line a 

bah — 
On de road an' in de manshun; gib de white folks special 

kyar? 

Oh, I kaint exactly b'lieb it, wid a conshence free an' 

Clair, 
Dat a ruler wid all knowledge is so partial an' unfair. 
An' I kaint belieb de angels, while recordin' people's sins 
Will record a word agin us on account ob cullud skins. 

Ner I kaint belieb my muddah, dat wuz pure beyant er 
doubt, 



16 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

'Kase ob culluh er religion has by Petah been kep' out; 
But I b'lieb de shinin' sperit ob de black man an' de white 
Will be landed in its stashun by de brightness of its light. 



THE TURKEY'S PRAYER. 



Oh, Thou Lord of misery and of love. 
From hades below or heaven above, 
Thou hast prospered this nation so well; 

Hast builded high churches of stone and of wood, 
All in thine own fashion, to shelter the good 
Who murder thy broodlings their cravings to quell. 

It does seem so hardened, oh. Infinite One, 

To see my chicks slaughtered with hatchet and gun. 
By thy children — so thankful — who buy and who sell. 

Who revel in plenty, in luxury live; 

But never a penny to poverty give — 
It makes my old bosom with sorrow to swell. 

If this is religion, and Christ died to save 

The people who killed him, no wonder they crave 

To kill and devour a creature like me. 

So in tenderness. Lord — adieu to my flock — 
A ransom I offer myself on the block — 

My body to sinners — my soul unto Thee. 

How thankful, oh. Father, I am that I am, 
So fondly they'll love me with cranberry jam; 

Forgive them for killing — 'tis all that they know — 
To pray for their neighbors who haven't enough, 
And cruelly murder, their stomachs to stuff. 

For thine be the glory, Amen — I must go! 



MY MOTHER'S HAND. 



There lies before me on the bed 
A souvenir white and grand. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 17 

That beckons back the snow-white head 

And touch of mother's hand. 
In every thread that beautiful spread 

Still speaks of mother's hand. 

And here's a handsome crazy-quilt, 
With flowers and leaves stitched o'er, 

That never die — that neither wilt. 
Each brings her back once more 

From every stitch there comes that rich, 
Sweet thought from spirit-shore. 

And there a tidy — "Robert Burns" — 
"Should auld acquaintance be" — 

Again that dear old face returns 
To say: "Remember me." 

In every part my mother's heart 
Implanted there I see. 

There hangs a plaque upon the wall — 

A parrot worked in black — 
That speaks the plainest of them all 

In calling mother back. 
That dear old Polly that kept her jolly 

With his "cracker to crack." 

And many a thing is stored away, 

I prize so very high, 
For in each one there seems to stay 

My mother's dear old eye. 
That from above still views with love 

These things that never die. 



VOICE OF A MATE. 



Come, Love, and whisper thy heart-yearns to me; 
Thy pangs and thy passions, thy longings all free; 
Come, enter my bosom and bring in thy life, 
And let me but soothe thee, my precious soul-wife. 

Let me subdue all the pains of thy form 
And coddle thy spirit away nice and warm. 



18 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Come, sit in the gloaming, in silence with me, 
And love on and live on in pure sympathy. 

Come sit in the moonlight, beneath the old tree, 
Where, wanting — soul-hungry — I first courted thee; 
Come, tell me in silence, as silent as then. 
While feasting on kisses, thy love o'er again. 

The grassy old hillside, romantic old place. 
The tall, dusky shadows, like spectres apace; 
The soft, soothing zephyrs are whispering yet 
The song of our wooing we ne'er can forget. 

Our oneness began — how fresh is the time — 
When eye and eye met in thrilling sublime; 
I heard something whisper — I heard something say- 
"That fashions your future, 'prepare ye the way.' " 

We often have parted and met since that day. 
But distance entwined us, and time paved the way, 
And Fortune will conquer forever old Fate, 
Where love in sweet patience will linger and wait. 



THE ORPHAN'S TWO MOTHERS. 



Mamma, I saw a sweet angel last night, 
While kneeling and saying my prayer; 

Her face was so fair, her eyes were so bright 
As she stood and gazed on me there. 

Just as I finished and rose to my feet. 

Gliding so gently, she came 
Over quite near me; I heard her repeat 

So calmly and sadly my name. 

She pushed back my ringlets and kissed me there 
Where you love to kiss me so well, 

And whispered these words: "My darling, so fair. 
You never need fear any hell." 

She spoke it so sweetly, I know it is true. 

And "I am your angel and guide," 
She said, "and ever am watchful of you — 

Your mamma who sickened and died." 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 19 

She then disappeared just the same as she came — 

So sudden, so sadly and still; 
The last words she spoke she whispered my name 

And bade me "be good," and I will. 

So few little children like me — left alone — 

Have one mother, loving and true, 
To watch them and teach them until they are grown. 

How thankful I am I have two. 

One on the earth-side and one over there 

With God and the angels on high; 
One teaching to pray, one heeding the prayer; 

Oh, who is more favored than I? 



THE SOUL OF THINGS. 



Have atoms souls with life endowed; . 
With auras to attract allowed; 
With power to sense, to feel and know 
The touch of those above, below. 
Or all around that doth attract. 
Also repel; their own in fact? 

Have moths, and mites, and ants, and fleas; 
Have stones and plants, and giant trees. 
Have birds and animals the same 
Aspiring, growing-power — aim. 
Virtue, fragrance, spirit and breath, 
Living, changing through so-called death? 

Why not things seen and unseen too 
Have souls, when soul is not in view? 
When things unseen have motive power. 
May not the same be in the flower. 
To make it grow and change alway, 
As alternate the night and day? 

May not this force that holds the sun, 
The moon, the earth in place, be one 
And but the same that is within 
The smallest mite, to make it win, 



20 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Attract, adhere to other mites, 
To other forms, as satellites 
Around the sun revolving cling 
To grow in harmony and bring 
The higher things out from the low? 
Is this what makes all nature grow? 
"Electric Force" — by science named — 
A force by science caught and tamed? 
And still the black clouds float in air. 
The lightnings flash in vivid glare. 
The thunders roar, the waters fall. 
And tell us science hasn't all 

It has but learned to use the force 
And undiscovered left the source. 
There seems design behind this power. 
In ocean billows and in flower, 
And if design there is behind, 
There surely is designing mind. 

There seems intent and purpose in 

All things, and thus all things begin; 

Then all combined in one great whole. 

Design, intent and power roll, 

And touch all things of earth and air. 

And sea — impart eternal there 

A living and a loving soul. 

To cling, evolve, emit, unroll. 

Attract, repel, unite, divide. 

To do and be, and work, and guide. 

Within all things, without, between. 

Nor felt, nor heard, likewise unseen; 

All things that are have ever been 

Endowed with souls with life within. 



AT THE GRAVE. 



Back to earth must each return; 

In this let us rejoice: 
That in the change we can discern 

The tone of Nature's voice; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 21 

Here, free from pain we lay to rest 

The lifeless bones and clay, 
Through which a spirit has expressed 

And gained eternal day. 

Let tears now shed be tears of joy, 

Let flowers be strewn around, 
As we deposit this alloy 

Beneath its native ground; 
Let smiles succeed the bitter woe 

At parting with this one. 
When in the parting we do know 

Their bitterness is done. 

No crape to speak of future dark 

Let mingle in this rite, 
Nor words of mourning ever mark 

The great beyond as night; 
Oh, let us now, with loving song. 

Deposit dust to dust. 
And let the spirit join the throng. 

And gain whate'er is just. 



TIME WAS— TIME IS. 



Time was when fagots flashed from every church 

Towards witches at the stake; 
When freedom swooned and left her lofty perch, 

And hid — "for Jesus' sake." 

Time was, at preacher's beck and priestly call, 

All earth obeyed in fear, 
And cringed like cowards 'neath religion's pall — 

That mantle of the bier. 

Time was when reason smothered back her voice 

And blindness had full sway, 
When gilded tyrants only could rejoice 

And demons had their day. 

Time is when reason stands her ground for right. 
And science has a voice. 



22 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

When Christian fagots only serve to light 
The world — and all rejoice. 

Time is when preachers, better understood, 

Must preach what people know 
Is true — must have a Father that is good — 

Or quit the church and go. 

Time is, when reason, long subdued, must rise 

From cobweb and from dust, 
And take its place among the living wise 

To reign with power just. 

Time is, the fagot, wet with heaven's quenching dew, 

Has lost its burning flame. 
And Christian bigots, black with crime, are going, too, 

In darkness of their shame. 



AUNT CHLOE'S TRANSITION. 



Hold heah, my deah ole honey, whut makes yo' han' so 

col'? 
I guess you's gittin' feeble now, erlong wid gittin' ole; 
You's been a deah ole pa'dnah, an I hate ter hab yer go. 
But I know de Lawd will take you up ter hebben, an' I 

know 
Dat de angels all will welcome dat are blessed soul ob 

yourn. 
While yo' pa'dnah, bowed in sorrer, will be left ter weep 

an' mourn. 

You's stuck to me, my honey, throo de thick an' throo 

de thin. 
An' I don't belieb yo' conshens hit hez ebber knowed a 

sin, 
Ner I doan belieb er woman, wheddah white er wheddah 

black. 
Could have ben a better muddah to dese chilluns fur er 

fac'; 
An' de naybahs allers knowed yer when dey wanted er 

good frien', 
Fer dey knowed when you had plenty you wuz willin' fer 

ter len'. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 23 

But yo' eyes hab los' der lustah an' yo' bones am stickin' 

throo, 
An' dar's no mo' laboh roun' heah fer dem han's ob yourn 

ter do; 
But I specks yo's mouty tickled fer ter lay yo' body down. 
When hit's got so weak an' tott'ry frum de toe-tip to de 

crown, 
An' I know dat ole St. Petah will jes' fling dat do' clar 

back, 
An' de angels dey'll invite yer fer ter take de seat yer lak. 

An' dey'll hang er 'roun' yo' sperit lak de bees er 'roun' 

de Queen, 
Kase you's ben de bestest woman dat de angels ebber 

seen; 
An' de Sabyah will be waitin' wid de book ob jedgment 

dar, 
An' he'll fasten to yo' fo'head a great bright an' shinin' 

star, 
An' he'll seat yer on er cushion whar yo' bones'll not go 

throo, 
Kase you's ben so good er muddah, an' a naybah kin' an' 

true 



WAITING, DREAMING, GOING, GREETING. 



I am waiting, only waiting 

Till the clouds of earth go by; 

Only waiting for the rating 
Of my record — low or high; 

And a voice so full of kindness. 

Speaks across the mortal blindness; 
"Brother, spirit cannot die." 

I am dreaming, sweetly dreaming. 
In the twilight of my day; 

Of the seeming of the gleaming 
Of a light across the bay; 

And a voice is sweetly calling, 

Calling, as the night is falling: 
"Do not tarry on the way." 



24 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

I am going, yes, I'm going 

To that land beyond my dream; 

I am going in the flowing 

Of life's ever-running stream; 

And the voice of Nature speaking, 

Tells my spirit that its seeking 
"Is its sunlight's golden gleam." 

Oh. the meetings and the greetings 
In the silence of that sphere; 

Oh, the meetings and completings 
Of the loving started here; 

Oh, the words of love unspoken. 

In the silence there unbroken. 
In their trueness will appear. 



BACKWARD AND FORWARD, O, TIME! 



"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in thy flight,' 
And make me an infant again for a night; 
Once more let me coddle upon mother's breast, 
A baby in dresses, and let me be pressed 
Again to that spirit as fondly and long 
As once I was held there, and hear that same song: 
"Oh, by, my baby, oh, by-by, my boy. 
By, oh, my baby, oh, by, mother's joy." 

Forward, move forward, O Time, in thy flight. 
And out o'er the future, oh bear me to-night; 
Out there in soul-land in mother's embrace 
Give my yearning spirit its babyhood place. 
With touches and kisses that mothers alone 
Implant on their babies before they are grown; 
Forward, move forward, and let me pass through. 
My mother's bright mansion in spirit to view. 

Forward and backward, then forward, O Time, 
Just floating 'twixt heaven and earth like a rhyme; 
Now treading, now silent, now stalking with Death 
Now wafting the zephyrs and tornado's breath; 
Now bringing the sunshine, the moonlight and dew. 
The raindrops in season, in season anew 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 25 

The flowers and fragrance — a life reconciled; 
O make me an angel — O make me a child. 



WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE'S TRANSITION. 



Life is fraught with many burdens, to be borne — by each 
his own — 

To be carried by each mortal till the mortal is outgrown, 

But true manhood never falters 'neath the burdens it 
must bear 

In its labors for the masses — for advancement every- 
where; 

This is taught us as the worl^ing of a grand eternal plan; 

In the deeds of William Gladstone, rightly called "The 
Grand Old Man." 

That true greatness lies in goodness all humanity agree; 
That true goodness with its motives from all selfishness 

born free 
Is immortal, and forever moves the conscience, free from 

guilt. 
In the labor of its nature — cannot die when bodies wilt — 
Here is taught us as the working of a grand eternal plan. 
In the life that lies before us, of this truly "Grand Old 

Man." 

All the world is paying homage to a life of greatest good; 
To a life that in its greatness is not fully understood; 
To a life that knew no falter when the right should be 

maintained; 
To a life of true devotion to the best that life contained; 
To a man who loved all peoples with a love no greater 

than 
Now returns by all in blessings on this noble "Grand Old 

Man." 



26 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

SILVIER MEMORIES. 



When you look into the mirror 

At that mass of snowy hair, 
Do you feel that you are nearer 

To that land so bright and fair? 
Do you think when life seemed dearer 

Or was freer from dull care; 
When your eyes discerned much clearer 

Grandest beauties everywhere? 

Do you see within the olden, 

Back of toil and care and pain. 
That same head of hair — a golden 

Or a black or brown again? 
Do you see just how beholden 

To Dame Fortune — just how vain — 
How your pride once did embolden 

Youth's ambition for Life's strain? 

Do you hear a baby cooing 

There upon its mother's lap. 
While those eyes of love are viewing 

In that face thy future's map? 
Do you hear that song, imbuing 

Little eyes to take a nap. 
While a mother is reviewing 

Baby's stockings, dress and cap? 

Do you travel o'er the highway 

Or the pathway of the past. 
O'er the rough and winding by-way 

Where your lot of life was cast, 
When you thought — "If I had my way 

Time would never fly so fast; 
I would fashion life all thy way, 

Happy childhood, to the last?" 

That silvered head is but a token 

Of a journey nearly o'er. 
Of many ties by time unbroken. 

Formed in blessed days of yore; 



DH. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 27 

Of kindly words and harsh ones spoken, 

And of souls made glad and sore; 
Yes, all these locks are little tokens 

Of the days to come no more. 



THE PENDULUM OF BIRTH. 



Who knows what lies beneath the sod 

Unkissed by sun or moon or dew, 
Waiting a call to life in pod. 

Now dormant — out of view? 
In Nature's womb where starts all things 

Upon the little round of earth, 
And life, no night, no day, but swings 

The pendulum of birth. 

And yet upon the sod unturned 

Eternal grass may grow 
And die and fall and there be burned 

Till ages come and go; 
And there beneath, asleep, alone 

Remains the virgin germ 
Of weed or plant of vine unknown 

By man or beast or worm. 

But once upturned to light of day 

And air and heat and rain. 
It smiles and starts upon the way 

Of evolution's plane, 
And fills its place among the things 

Beyond man's power to know. 
Above the flight of angel wings, 

And science here below. 

An uptilrned sod, a bit of earth 

Upheaved where Time unknown 
Has gathered seeds and held from birth 

Entombed, where winds have blown 
O'er ancient lands to lodge and lie 

In wait for touch of mate — 
The light and air and rain, and by 

The soil to germinate. 



28 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

The germ was there; the life was there; 

Not dead, but sleeping through 
The change that came to earth and air 

And sea, when change was due. 
It might have been a part of mai- 

Sometime, and clothed a soul 
That sensed and thought and taught the plan 

Of evolution's roll. 

It might have helped to rule the world 

When Rome was in her prime; 
It might have been from Caesar hurled 

When Brutus, steeped in crime, 
Made wounds that filled with rage and woe 

An age of muscle, brain 
And pride; an age that had to grow 

To find the spirit plane. 

An upturned sod, a tiny germ, 

A living thing, a world 
Within a world, as true and firm 

In life, though sleeping, curled 
In patience all those busy years 

Of all the worlds intact. 
Sleeping, growing, waiting, its fears 

Subdued — a living fact. 



QUERY AND CONCLUSION. 



Will the angels make me wait 

'Round about the golden gate. 
Just because my clothes are shabby and are all worn 
through? 

Do they watch me as they pass 

Down the aisle to prayer and mass 
And then watch me back to see if I've a rented pew? 

Do they look in my old purse 
So flat and empty — even worse — 
Full of holes and wrinkled with neglect and want of gold, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 29 

When they want to judge my soul 
For a place upon the roll 
Of enlistment in the Master's large and spotless fold? 

Will my record stand the test. 

With the rich man at his best, 
Who has squeezed from others all the wealth he claims to 
own? 

Do they spurn the righteous doer 

Up in heaven if he's poor? 
Then the God is only Money and sits on a golden throne. 

If 'tis gold that is the God, 

And he rules with golden rod. 
Then his crown must be of diamonds, costly, bright and 
rare. 

And the angels, one and all. 

Robed in white, within the wall 
Of that mansion must possess a wealth of golden hair. 

If the rich are there preferred 

Then the Father's holy word 
Was a falsehood when he spoke it through his only son, 

For he said without a doubt. 

That the rich were all barred out; 
And in hoarding up their money they must others leave 
with none. 

But sometimes I hear a voice. 

And it makes my soul rejoice. 
And it drives away the feeling that my life has been in 
vain, 

For it tells me that the poor 

Of a heaven are as sure 
As the rich men, if their purpose is to give as well as gain. 

I have worked and earned my bread 

And have shunned with fear and dread 
All temptations to oppress and cramp my honest fellow- 
men; 

I've been honest to a cent. 

And a life of love have spent, 
But if gold is God, I've lost it. Ah, what then? What then? 

But my spirit tells me "No, 
That the God is Soul, I know; 
That Soul is Love and Spirit in a universal law," 



30 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

And I wouldn't give that thought 
For all Heavens that are bought, 
Or the mansions that are builded of aristocratic straw. 

Let me wear these slouchy clothes 

O'er a heart that always loathes 
The everlasting selfishness of man's unholy greed, 

To the closing earthly day 

Of the spirit in the clay. 
And I'll trust my future welfare outside of money creed. 



BE PATIENT WITH YOUR MOTHER. 



Do not speak cross to your mother, though your angry 

heart may break. 
For you do not know the hours she has suffered for your 

sake 
And you cannot tell what moment that her earthly sun 

may set, 
Then for every cross word spoken you will carry a regret. 

Her old heart is often breaking and her eyes oft filled 

with tears, 
While her thoughts are for her children in the coming of 

the years. 
Her kind spirit shows no falter in the duty to her own. 
And her bosom covers sorrows by her children never 

known. 

All grandchildren are her idols, aye, far more to her than 

gold. 
And though sometime while correcting she may get real 

cross and scold, 
There is always warm and tender in her voice's undertone 
That deep feeling of affection that true mothers only own. 

Oft her language may be cutting when her nerves are all 

unstrung. 
But be patient, she's your mother, and her nerves are not 

so young. 
She was patient, kind and gentle to her children in the 

past. 
And it is a bounden duty that they love her to the last. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 31 

She may scold you as she used to in the days that are 

gone by. 
Till it wounds your very spirit and you feel that you must 

cry, 
But be patient with your mother, yes, be calm e'en then 

and smile 
For she loves you and can linger with you but a little 

while. 

Kindly make her life a heaven while she stays upon the 

earth. 
If you have the kind of spirit to appreciate your birth. 
Through the sunshine and the shadows of this life she 

guarded you. 
And your love and sweetest kindness to your mother is 

now due. 



NOW DO AN' YO' GIT EXCITED! 



Now doan yo' git excited, fob dar's time fob eberything; 
De trees dey doan' begin ter bud fo' de cummin ob de 

spring, 
An' de cattapillah's baby in his lil' wahm cookoon, 
Ef he gits in awful hurry he kaint git out too soon. 

De lir squirrels am a-chummin' an' de birds hab 'gun ter 

mate. 
An' hit sets dis darkey thinkin' — kinder buzzin' in his 

pate — 
'Bout de stories dat dey tells him ob de Bible ez er whole, 
An' dat now's de time fob lookin' ter de intres ob his soul. 

Dey's done gone tol' me sartin, dat jis' now's de only 

time. 
An' yit dey says de sinnah dat repents at death kin climb 
Up on dat golden laddah jis' ez clean ez any saint, 
But yit I kaint belieb it, fo' de Lawd, I sartin kaint. 

An' I kaint see how dey reasons when dey reckons up two 

ways. 
An' hit leabs dis yere ol' noggin in a kinder sorter daze; 



32 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But dar's nuthin' lak er watchin' all de pints in nachral 

law, 
When de preachah an' de deacons am er pintin' ter yo' 

flaw. 

No use ter be in mosliun when you should be layin' still, 
Ner be up an' cummin' airly when dar's lots ob time ter 

kill, 
Dar's time foh work an' loafin', an' er time ter sing an' 

pray, 
But de time ter whip de debbil's when de debbil cums yo' 

way. 

Termorrer's fer de promise, an' de yisterday am gone, 
But terday's de time foh doin', an' de season's alius on; 
But doan git in too big hurry, yo'll be loosin' sho's yo' do, 
Foh dar's uddah men er gittin' and dey wants ez much 
ez you. 

Dar's er season foh de buddin' dat seems sweetes' an' de 

bes', 
De growin' an' de ripenin', an' de season fer ter res'. 
But you kaint push on no season any fasteh ef yo' tries, 
An' yo' rushin' after money is er failure when you dies. 

All yo' rushin' arter Jesus lak er hongry pig foh co'n, 
Wid a tambereen an' singin' an' a big bass drum an' ho'n, 
Kaint onhitch de chains ob nacher mor'n de church's 

clangin' chime, 
An' no saint kin git ter hebben much afo' de gittin' time. 



SWEET REGRETS. 



Good deeds we might have done but did not wish to do. 
Leave horrid gaps in life for mem'ry to pass through; 
Love neglected, frowns for smiles, kindness one forgets. 
Teach caution, right and wrong, in painful, sweet regrets. 

Like footprints 'round a home of blighted innocence; 
Like ghosts around a graveyard, outpeering through the 
fence; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 33 

Like angel eyes that watch and make us pay life's debts, 
Are clustered 'round our souls the bitter, sweet regrets. 

Like star-gems in the bright blue sky o'erspread above; 
Like silent voices whispering words of angel love; 
Like crusts and crumbs a soul in deepest hunger gets; 
Are all the lessons of our sweetest sweet regrets. 



MOTHER — MY SAVIOR. 



I would rather have my mother to direct my footsteps 

here 
Than to risk an unknown Savior, for my mother is most 

dear, 
And I feel that in the spirit of the kinship that she holds 
She is drawn more closely to me as her mother soul 

unfolds. 

She is hunting not for mansions up around the "great 

white throne," 
Only working there and waiting in a home that is her 

own; 
And I know that when I call her she can hear my voice 

as clear 
As she could back there in childhood when her dear old 

form was near. 

And I know my loving mother is the only one to be 

Just the kind and loving Savior that she always was to 
me; 

And from spirit land she watches with her kind old soul- 
eyes now. 

And before her precious presence I will make my gracious 
bow. 

And my father, long in soul-land, always honest, kind and 

true. 
Doubtless oft has been my Savior when I knew not what 

to do; 
When the clouds were round me clustered and my pathway 

seemed so rough, 
"Be true to self," he whispered, "and that is guide 

enough." 



34 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

How oft those words are spoken when the way seems 

dark and drear; 
And they always make me stronger, as they give me 

kindly cheer; 
And I always aim to heed them just because I know they 

come 
From my father or my mother, and will always help me 

some. 

I so often go to slumber when too weary e'en to rest. 
And I dream my head is pillowed on my mother's dear 

old breast, 
And the comfort of the dreaming fills my lonely heart 

with joy, 
For I know she still is mother to her curly-headed boy. 



WILL COME BACK TO ME. 



When I become useless, decrepit and old. 

Just waiting from earth-land to flee. 
Will all of my kindred and loved ones grow cold 

Aad fail to be good unto me? 

Will those I befriended, will those I gave aid 

With heart and with hand ever free. 
Go back on my kindness? Will promises made 

Be broken, forgotten to me? 

Long days have I labored for others to gain. 

As though it were Nature's decree, 
And has all my wearying labor been vain? 

Will nothing ceme back unto me? 

All labor is pleasant when seasoned with love, 

Though tedious and wearing it be; 
My motives are sacredly indexed above 

And sometime will come back unto me. 

When done with my duty my spirit will go 

Where duties again I shall see; 
Where kindness yields kindness and good motives grow 

Then justice will come unto me. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 35 

EDITH'S PHILOSOPHY. 



"Isn't Mamma up in Heaven?" to the preacher Edith said; 
She had heard him telling others "She was numbered with 

the dead, 
And as she was not a Christian she would find the future 

dark; 
She could enter not the Kingdom, for the Savior knew the 

mark." 

Edith listened for a moment and her anxious soul spoke 

out: 
"If my Mamma ain't in Heaven, I would rather, too, stay 

out, 
For she loved me and whatever else in future may occur, 
I shall never care to go there if there isn't room for her. 

"And I'll never hunt for Jesus, for I do not care to find 
A being who to Mamma would be cruel or unkind. 
Oh, no, sir, Mr. Preacher, I will have you understand 
That if she is not in Heaven I will seek another land. 

"If there is a loving Savior now, or if there ever was. 
He could not close the doors of Heaven on the good 

Mammas, 
And you needn't preach such doctrine to the children of 

to-day. 
For our Mammas come and tell us they are just across 

the way. 

"They tell us, Mr. Preacher, for in dream the other night 
Mamma came to see me, robed in purest, spotless white. 
And she kissed me and she told me to be good and true, 
And that sometime she would take me home beyond the 
blue. 

"And I told her in the silence of that sweet and peaceful 

dream, 
I was lonesome here without her and I couldn't make it 

seem 
Like the dear old home it used to be when I nestled In 

her lap 
With my head upon her bosom in a blessed baby nap." 



36 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



IN THE SWEET AND GOLDEN SOMETIME. 



In the sweet and golden sometime that is not so far away. 
There will be a changed condition, and each dog will have 

his day. 
In the rapid coming future there will come a day of grace 
For the beings who have labored here to cultivate the 

race; 
For the beings who have labored for a pittance for the 

rich. 
But who never could get higher than the toiler's working 

niche. 

In the sweet and golden sometime, and the time will not 
be long, 

When no few will own this planet and control the human 
throng, 

There will be a brighter prospect for the masses here be- 
low. 

And aristocrat "four-hundreds" this old world will never 
know. 

For the laws of righteous Nature claim all men as right- 
ful heirs. 

And the poor and rich are equal at the landing of the 
stairs. 

In the sweet and golden sometime, when the fog of earth 

has cleared, 
When there comes a brilliant sunbeam and the clouds 

have disappeared, 
The results of Life's great battle can be summed up by 

each one; 
Then the credit will be given only where good work is 

done, 
And ambition to gain riches will have checked the growth 

of soul 
And the poor may be the richer in the great eternal Whole. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 37 

SWEET DREAMS. 



I oft sit and dream of the firelight glow. 

Of the dear, dear days of the long ago, 

And bring back the dear faces and forms and souls, 

As I gaze in the glare of the bright live coals. 

I love those dear dreams and the firelight gleams, 
And the scenes they bring back, for ever it seems 
That even the sorrows that weighed me down so 
Were needed by Nature in making me grow. 

Those dear days lived over in dreaming to-day 
Make smoother my rambles along the rough way; 
I get back to childhood with each pleasant friend 
And live there unheeded by Time and the end. 

The days pass so swiftly — too swiftly by far — 
While dreaming these visions, for Time's moving car 
Goes swiftly and leaves me much older, with hair 
All frosted and dying, engulfed in dull care. 

And yet to dream ever, how pleasant 'twould be 

To dream o'er the river of Eternity, 

When done with the earthly and earth-friends are gone, 

To live in my dreaming and dream on and on. 

Oh, sweet, blessed dreaming, in sleep and awake. 
All earth is but seeming and troubles forsake 
When thou art upon me; the muddiest stream 
Is clear as a crystal — when only a dream. 



A CHRISTMAS POEM. 



While the world is wrapt in splendor with old Santa's fine 

display. 
And the tinkle and the jingle of the bells on Christmas 

day 
Makes some saddened hearts grow merry and some selfish 

persons give. 



38 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

There's a class of persons stating that the Savior didn't 
live. 

And still the world keeps smiling in the splendor of the 

feast, 
That was called out into being by the ancient wily priest; 
That was called into existence to perpetuate a game — 
To control the world's religion in a"Holy Savior's name." 

Now the Day has builded merchants from the street to 

millionaires, 
And to win the people's dollars with delusions and with 

snares 
It has made demand for presents with no object but the 

pay. 
But in spite of all, we cherish the dear old Christmas day. 

Though they know the Santa falsehood and believe the 

Christ a fake, 
For the children there is gladness when on Christmas 

they awake 
And they find their stockings loaded with the gifts of 

Santa Claus, 
And then gather like sweet angels all around their Mas 

and Pas. 



TO RISE AGAIN. 



The curtaiii falls to rise again; 

'Tis but a change of scene; 
With specialties — a joy — a pain. 

Close interspersed between. 

To rise again upon a stage 

Where souls eternal play 
Life's dramas o'er from age to age, 

In Nature's endless way. 

To rise again through every act 

In evolution's grind; 
Through every scene in this great fact 

Of life and humankind. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 39 

To rise again before the throng 

In other worlds than this; 
The curtain falls, and still the song 

Of life is in death's kiss. 



OUR KIND OF A GOD. 



He stood upon the palace steps, a wreck of humanity, 
With hunger weak, in rags and cold, naught but a tramp 

was he; 
The door was closed upon him now, no crumbs in there 

to spare; 
The parson had come a moment before, the family was 

at prayer; 
In purple and linen fine the Lord must hear their plea 
And thanks for all their food and clothes obtained from 

poverty; 
Thanks to a God who only sees through eyes so selfish 

grown 
That he feeds but those who pay their way and leaves the 

rest alone. 
Hear the prayer within and without and then in justice 

true. 
Pray tell whom a God of love should show his love and 

kindness to. 

The Prayer Within. 

Oh, God, We bow our heads to Thee in thanks for all this 
glittering wealth; 

These clothes, our food, our jewels, to all our children 
health; 

These palace walls that keep us warm, this costly furni- 
ture, 

That fill our hearts with pride and weal, and makes us 
feel secure; 

Thou hast blessed us all with stomachs full and purses as 
replete; 

Hast given us from stores of earth, in heaven a promised 
seat; 

Hast given us that others earned because we every day 



40 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Leaned hard on Thee in all our work and ne'er forgot to 

pray; 
For all these things we thank Thee, God, and ask Thee 

once again 
To love and bless us chosen ones, for Jesus' sake — Amen. 

The Prayer Without; 

Oh, God, art thou the father of us all, the rich as well as 

poor? 
Then ere I perish of hunger and cold, open this rich man's 

door. 
If thou art Father and we are sons, then why my brother 

bless 
And leave me out in rags to starve, when I pray none the 

less? 
I ask no costly palace, God, no lands of breadth and 

length; 
Give me the crumbs my brother wastes; give to me work 

and strength. 
I'd give Thee thanks, oh, God, if I had ever felt 'twas right 
To thank for naught and flatter loud a God so partial 

quite. 
But this weak form, this ragged wreck, these bruised and 

bleeding feet 
Are all I have to thank Thee for — a home out in the street. 
* * * * * * * ** 

Did ever a God exist, pray tell, unmindful of the poor 
That stand in hunger, ragged and cold, and beg at the rich 

man's door? 
Could ever a God of justice be so aroused by flattering 

praise. 
And deaf to the plea of poverty, that a hand he would 

not raise? 
Oh! give us a God who sees the tramp who begs from door 

to door; 
Oh! give us a God unchained by gold, or greed, or thirst 

for gore; 
A God of wisdom, truth and love, who "sees the sparrow's 

fall," 
Who loves the right, though rich or poor, or give us no 

God at all. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 41 

A TALK WITH THE PANSIES. 



(A Beautiful Offering of Pressed Pansies, Sent by a 
Loving Friend.) 

Now look up and tell me truly, all my pretty little dears, 

Where your souls have been in slumber for these many 
many years? 

Were you sleeping there in waiting in the starry vaults 
above, 

Just to bear this little message of my darling and her 
love? 

Just to bloom and beam with kisses from the pretty morn- 
ing sun, 

And deliver precious tokens from the loving, living one? 

Did she whisper something gently, pretty pansies, unto 

you? 
Did she fill you full of sweetness from her spirit ever 

true? 
When she plucked you did she pinch you and confide to 

you her prayer, 
That she "felt a little lonesome then, without her lover 

there? 
Did she press you to her bosom as she sat in trance-like 

dream, 
While her soul sailed out toward heaven in its magnitude 

supreme? 

Ah, you bow to me in answer, while I read it in your eye, 
And I know such pretty optics cannot deign to tell a lie, 
She just bound you on that paper and she pressed you 

snugly there. 
As she muttered something loving, such as "nare, and 

nare, and nare," 
And she placed her very spirit in your pretty coat of fur. 
And when gazing first upon you, you reminded me of her. 

Oh, I thank you, pretty pansies, for the messages you 

bring, 
And your praises shall forever through the passing ages 

ring. 
For the secrets you delivered from a soul so dear to me 
Will remain as fresh forever and as sweet eternally, 



42 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

And your iDright and pretty faces that have played so well 

their parts, 
Shall forever be instated as the messengers of hearts. 

Pretty Pansies, blooms of sweetness from the dewdrops 

and the sun, 
From the starry night of stillness, now your earthly race 

is run. 
Fold you there in peace to slumber 'twixt the lids of that 

good book 
Where my eyes may feast at pleasure when anhungered 

for a look. 
Rest, sweet Pansies, and contented be your pretty souls, 

and blest. 
You have filled your mission sweetly, and have earned 

eternal rest. 



UNCLE JOSH'S DREAM. 



One night I sot er thinkin' o' my chances over thar, 
Whar the Christian God is rulin' like an old tyrannic 

Czar; 
An' I fell asleep an' dreamin', an' the dream it hants me 

still, 
Like the shadder o' er mountain in the evenin' hants the 

rill. 

I dreamt I stood er lookin' at er mighty golden gate 
That was swung betwixt a garden an' er awful burnin' 

grate; 
The Gate was shut an' bolted when I walked up fer ter 

rap. 
An' ask ter see the garden, an' inquire about the crap. 

I was told ter tech the button, by er noble lookin' man, 
An' the gate would fly right open on the latest modern 

plan. 
I knew then this was Heaven, an' I trembled fer a spell, 
At the thought of seein' Peter an' my chance o' gittin' 

hell. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 43 

But St. Peter come er laughin', an' he tuk me by the 

hand 
As an agent that is lookin' fer a purchaser o' land, 
An' he says ter me: "Old Hay-Seed, what's the matter 

with yer now? 
Hev ye' come ter look fer heaven since yer got too old ter 

plow? 

"We kin allers git attention from the old an' sickly soul, 

But the hustlers never question 'bout a heaven er a 
sheol" — 

An' he went on thar a talkin' 'bout the victims that 'ad 
fell 

From the churches — preachers — deacons — 'at was roast- 
in' thar in hell. 

He informed the place was peopled most entirely jist now 
With the folks who made their livin' 'thout the sweatin' 

o' their brow; 
The ones 'at sung an' shouted, an' prayed fer sinners' 

peace. 
While a lookin' through their fingers fer a victim fer ter 

fleece. 

He stood an' talked an' eyed me till I thought he'd look 

me through. 
But he smiled an' kindly asked me — "Is there somethin' 

I kin do?" 
An' I said: "I come a lookin' fer the place where Adam 

fell— 
An' I'd like ter see the Savior, but I don't care much fer 

hell." 

Then he asked me fer my record, an' I gin it true an' 

straight. 
An' St. Peter flung wide open unter me the golden gate. 
When I hit upon religion, an' I told him 'bout the sperit. 
He jist motioned me ter enter, 'cause he didn't care ter 

hear it. 

'Twas then I seed clean through it; I'd heer'd that song 

afore: 
He was orthodox — I knew it — an' was bitter to the core; 
An* then when the gate swung open I jist seemed ter 

swing therewith; 



44 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But a sperit softly whispered 'at "the whole thing was a 
myth." 

"An' 'at when I went in sperit on a journey in my dream, 
An' a Christian guidin' sperit had jist made St. Peter 

seem 
An old, livin' talkin' bein', fer ter carry out the plan. 
Then I 'woke an' found a lesson that I give ter brother 

man. 

1 m9^ » 

A MOTHER LEFT ALONE. 



You can measure all the sadness and the sorrows ever 

known. 
But there's nothing that will compare with a mother left 

alone. 
All her years of toil and worry, ev'ry painful night and 

day. 
Is forgotten in her sorrow when the last one goes away. 

Though old Death has kept his distance from her home 
through all the years. 

There's a pulling at her heartstrings as each loved one 
disappears. 

Tho' she knows there must be partings as they all ad- 
vance in age. 

Her dear soul is never ready for the final ending page. 

She has pressed them to her bosom and has nursed them 
each in turn, 

And as each moves out in selfhood there's an added pain- 
ful yearn. 

She still feels those baby fingers and those lips and bone- 
less gums, 

And her mother heart is broken when that final parting 
comes. 

Though she gives her life to please them, they but seldom 

realize 
That her heart gets sad and heavy with the torturing 

"good-byes"; 
But she feels those baby fingers as when they were all 

her own. 
And her mother heart is palsied when at last she is alone. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 45 

IF I COULD BE A GOD. 



I sometimes think — 
If I could be a God awhile, I know what I would do: 
I'd make the world a better one or make the whole thing 

new. 
I would not change the sun or moon, or busy twinkling 

star. 
Or leave, just for a chosen few, the heaven's gates ajar. 

If I could be a God — 

Throughout my kingdom I would have my edict under- 
stood: 

That all things made or caused to be, were aimed for some 
great good. 

I'd stop all wars, all crimes of men, all greedy selfish 
strife; 

I'd have all beings show respect for other beings' life. 

And then I think — 
I'd have the millions gambled with more equally in use, 
I'd make a limit to man's wealth, thus limit its abuse. 
I'd have no mothers starving here, no ragged, homeless 

ones; 
I'd have on earth but peace and love, and have no use for 

guns. 

If I could be a God — 
I'd open wide the spirit land and let all people see 
That when the body fails the soul continues onward free. 
I'd have no law oppressive to the masses, while the few 
High-headed ride above it all. I'd have each get his due. 

And then I think — 
I'd have each human being know the limit of his sphere. 
And have no tyrant hold the weak in constant awe and 

fear. 
I'd have each human beast confined within his little stall. 
And bring about some kind of peace and happiness for all. 

Oh, yes, I know — 
I'd run this world to suit myself and have no holes of hell, 
If I could be a God with all the powers for a spell, 
And wouldn't have to ask a child to lead me on the way, 
Or dictate all my duties, if I were a God to-day. 



46 DR. T. WILKINS* POEMS. 

But, after all — 
I have no fault to find with God for running things His 

way, 
Nor do I think that He will chide me for my finite say. 
It is a fact no two agree upon the just and right; 
No two can feel, or hear the same, or be of equal sight. 

In humbleness — 

Infinitude! Almighty! All! I raise my hat to Thee! 

Were I as Thou art, in control, I'd soon quite crazy be, 

With here complaint, and there a curse, and naught ex- 
actly right, 

I wonder not sometimes that Thou, though God, art out 
of sight. 

I bow, for I do know — 
To one some things are right, and to others all is wrong; 
I wonder not that Thou art broad and wise and great and 

strong. 
No doubt, if any man could be the Great All-Wise Divine, 
He'd soon close up and bar the doors, and from the place 

resign. 

Lastly, I conclude — 
'Twere better then to be content with things we cannot 

change. 
For "ten to one" were we to try this world to rearrange 
We'd make the thing WE would have right, for other 

beings worse. 
And bring upon our finite heads the world's united curse. 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 



There is no death. A form grows with each passing soul 

on earth. 
That leaves it at the grave when taking on a higher birth. 
Just hands it back to earth again and thanks her for the 

loan. 
And passes on to spheres beyond. The earth receives 

her own. 
And through the crucible of change, in time unfolds 

again. 
Refined — the protoplasmic stuff for other men. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 47 

There is no death. The sobs and sighs and hearts bowed 

down in grief 
Are but results of false and crude and ignorant belief, 
But when a friend or loved one goes beyond our mortal 

view 
We call it death and leave it so for want of something 

new. 
We see them pass from sight and know so little where 

they go 
We call it death; and yet the gates are swinging to and 

fro. 

There is no death. We know the forms of loved ones are 

at rest. 
Though burned or 'neath the ground with hands across the 

breast. 
We know the places held by them on earth are vacant 

now. 
For as the coffin lid closed down above the form, somehow 
We lost the touch, we lost the voice of some one that we 

love — 
We hear them say, "There is no death; your loved ones 

are above." 



MOTHER AND THE VOICES. 



Sweet voices of children we hear once again; 
Sweet spring-time and summer, sweet brooklet and glen; 
Sweet faces, sweet flowers, sweet woodlands, sweet ferns, 
In vivid succession each sweetly returns. 

Sweet roses and lilies, sweet violets, too; 
Sweet Williams and daisies return fresh and new, 
With mother's sweet visage that dwells in our souls 
And makes life replete as mem'ry unrolls. 

Sad changes have come and have wafted away. 
New scenes have been noted with each passing day. 
But brighter and grander that motherly face 
Grows ever as over our childhood we trace. 

A sweet voice is calling us back to the time. 



48 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Back to the home-life, so sweetly sublime. 
When fairy-like fancies illumined youth's brain 
With idols and ideals we could not obtain. 

No burdens, no worry, no clouds o'er the sky. 
Nothing but sunlight and brightness, and why; 
Oh, why do those voices so haunt us again, 
And make us as children; make children of men? 

Two voices — we hear them — they come o'er and o'er; 
They speak through the zephyrs and old ocean's roar; 
Sweet voice of the future, sweet voice of the past. 
Both speak of my mother and love that will last. 

The past speaks of mother with soul e'er in tune, 
With love only mothers who sweetly commune 
With loving small children can ever display. 
And the voice is so sweet of that yesterday. 

The voice of the future comes back to the soul; 
Comes back as the ages of progress unroll; 
Comes back from the land of the living out there 
Where mother, still loving, is living somewhere. 

Comes back from the silent and beautiful shore; 
The Sphere of the Mothers, where peace evermore 
Enchanting with music of love's sweetest tone, 
Unfolds into perfect — true Motherhood's own. 



IT MUST LEAVE YOU AT THE TOMB. 



Why not be contented with the little you possess, 
And just give the world the richness of your bloom? 

Why not give your surplus to your kindred in distress? 
For you know your wealth must leave you at the tomb. 

Why should you breed sickness in accumulating wealth 
When it only brings the soul eternal gloom? 

Why not be contented with your labor and your health? 
For you know your wealth must leave you at the tomb. 

Why not stay the hunger of your starving fellowman, 
And thus pay the world the rental for your room; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 49 

Feed them with the surplus of your fortune while you 
can? 
For you know your wealth must leave you at the tomb. 

When to gain a million ever means to rob and squeeze, 
You must know your crime will seal your spirit's doom, 

Then be up and seeking pain and sorrow to appease; 
For you know your wealth must leave you at the tomb. 

There are threads of gold and silver for your soul to wear. 
When you weave them on your own life's honest loom; 

But the ghost of hoarded wealth will haunt you over 
there. 
For you know your wealth must leave you at the tomb. 



THE PAUPER'S APPEAL. 



I know I am ragged, and dirty, and poor, 
And I beg for my living from door unto door; 
No home and no shelter, no friends kind and true; 
No kindred to help me; what else can I do? 
Too feeble to labor, too honest to steal. 
To stay this hunger I only appeal. 

Don't look at me that way, for I am no dog; 
I'm only a pauper, and no greedy hog; 
I ask not for dollars, nor palace, but do 
Want crusts from your table — a penny or two — 
To tide me just over the hour or the day 
That yet I'm allotted among you to stay. 

My story's an old one, I know, to most men. 
And tedious and irksome to me, but, ah, then. 
What's left for a pauper, and folks of that stamp 
But in hunger and tatters to beg and to tramp? 
What's left for a poor man but to labor and plod. 
In this land of the free and an orthodox God? 

I once had a shelter, though humble and small. 
That kept from the weather my loving ones all. 
But one day a Christian, of millions possessed. 
Got a mortgage upon it and — you know the rest- 



50 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

My shelter was taken — my loving ones died, 
And left me just drifting alone with the tide. 

His Prayer. 

No home and no kindred, no money nor friends; 
Just living and breathing to wait till it ends; 
Oh, Angel of mercy, of love and of light, 
I've always lived honest and tried to do right, 
Why must I here longer in misery roam? 
Oh, take me, I pray you, to my spirit home. 



THE POORHOUSE IN SIGHT. 



When I am old and worthless for the toils of this old 

earth ; 
When this body gets so useless that its service has no 

worth; 
When this worn-out clay is helpless and the soul is almost 

free, 
Will the friends that I made happy to the poor-house 

hustle me? 

Will the friends who love my poems, who have riches 

stored away. 
See me fill a pauper's lodgings while upon the earth I 

stay? 
Will the pleasure that I gave them all regardless of the 

cost. 
And the sacred love I loaned them through my writings, 

e'er be lost? 

Will the poor-house keeper like me for the genii haunt- 
ing me? 

W^ill he give me some light labor and a room where I can 
be 

With my muses in the silence of the evenings all alone? 

Then my soul will sing its anthems to the world in loving 
tone. 

Like a shadow hangs before me the old poorhouse open 
door, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 51 

And it seems to swing so lightly and poetic: nothing more. 
With my pen and ink and paper and my muses I will 

dwell 
In the poorhouse and be happy, if the keeper treats me 

well. 

If it be my fate to go there, let the world of this be sure: 

That while I was writing poems I was making no one 
poor; 

While my soul was giving gladness to the world in rhyth- 
mic thought 

I was not oppressing people with the wealth I might have 
caught. 

I would rather live in honor, though I fill a pauper's 

grave. 
Than to be possessed of millions I obtained by playing 

knave; 
I would rather be a servant or a worthy neighbor's dog 
Than to be the hungry spirit of a greedy human hog. 

Though the world looks on a pauper with a feeling of 

disdain, 
Oft beneath the poorhouse shelter will be found a noble 

brain; 
Greed's environ is the palace and its owner oft a knave. 
While an honest man's possession is the bond of common 

slave. 

Let me pass beyond the portal with a conscience free 

and clear, 
And though passing from the poorhouse I will pass in 

splendid cheer; 
Let me help to make folks happy and the rich can have 

their gold. 
And no matter what betides me in the days when I am 

old. 

» ^mw * 

Could money bring to all alike the comforts of the earth, 

And Man to man be just, 
Then life to each would be so sweet that heaven would 
lose its worth. 

And God would lose our trust. 



52 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

AT THE POORHOUSE DOOR. 



Let me in there, Mr. Keeper, for I'm feeble and I'm old; 
Oh, Sir, please do, Mr. Keeper, for I'm turned out in the 

cold. 
Yes, I've children who have plenty, but, sir, that is naught 

to me. 
For I'm old, and they say "childish" — kind o' queer, sir, 

don't you see? 
And they closed their doors upon me, sir, those babies 

all of mine. 
Because I'm old and childish; because I'm in decline. 

Let me in, for I must slumber, I must rest this breaking 

heart, 
I must soon forget my sorrow or my soul and form will 

part. 
The world knows all my trouble, for It is the old, old 

song, 
I was all right till they married, and just then I was all 

wrong. 
So they closed the door upon me, sir, these babies all of 

mine. 
Because I'm old and childish; because I'm in decline. 

This dear old dog beside me, sir, must be admitted too. 
He's all the friend that's left me, he's the only one that's 

true. 
And he's old and weak and homeless, sir, and childish, 

just as I, 
And with him I plead for shelter and a quiet place to die. 
For they closed the doors upon us, those babies all of 

mine. 
Because we're old and childish; because we're in decline. 

Oh, please, kind keeper, won't you just open wide the 

door? 
For justice I'm not pleading, but for mercy I implore. 
My cause is just, God knows, sir, above the heart of man; 
A mother's love is justice, sir, upon the highest plan. 
Though they closed the doors upon me, those dear babies 

all of mine, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 53 

Yet they cannot close their spirits 'gainst a mother's love 
divine. 

I'll forgive them up in heaven; I will be where'er they 
roam, 

And when they are old and childish, I'll prepare their 
spirit home. 

I must go now, sir — no, thank you — for I hear the angels 
call; 

Be good to my old Carlo — I forgive them — that is all. 

And the doors of heaven opened for a soul that was di- 
vine. 

And a mother's sun-like spirit entered there in love to 
shine. 

***********#♦ 
Oh, how often has been acted in the drama of this life. 
This cruel, heartless feeling towards a mother, for a wife. 
Towards a mother, for a husband, when in passion people 

wed. 
They forget the loving touches that once soothed the 

baby head. 
And they drive the mother pleading, to a common poor- 
house door. 
Like a dog to die of hunger, when her usefulness is o'er. 



McKINLEY AND CZOLGOSZ. 



Poetic Vision of Their Meeting at the Traditional Golden 
Gate of Heaven. 

(Written immediately following the assassination of 
President McKinley, while the world was in mourning.) 

I seem to see at Heaven's gate two men on entrance bent; 
One was an assassin, the other a president. 



The assassin in a stupor, or a dark and gloomy state. 
Slow approaches old St. Peter for admission through the 
gate, 



54 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But before that aged watchman would permit him to 

pass through 
He must pass upon his record for at least a year or two. 
Se he telephoned to Central, but old Satan had the 'phone, 
And replied that he must interview the victim all alone. 
It just seemed that a description had been telephoned 

ahead 
That upon a certain morning the assassin would be dead, 
And as Satan "knows his victims," he was there ahead of 

time. 
And had duly been apprised of the assassin's awful crime. 

Then came Satan to St. Peter and thus spake with glad 

salute. 
For his victim who was standing at the entrance, sad and 

mute: 
"I am pleased, and at your service, and the fire is all 

aglow 
In the special builded furnace where I cooked Booth and 

Guiteau." 

Then St. Peter turned to Czolgosz to inform him of his 
fate, 

And his eyes fell on McKinley standing just within the 
gate. 

And his voice and smiling presence, unexpected at the 
time. 

Filled old Satan's burning bosom with emotions all sub- 
lime. 

"I must beg your pardon, Peter, for my presence at your 
* gate. 

But I want to plead in Heaven for this soul a better fate. 

Please do not let them hurt him, for he surely is insane 

On a subject he had pondered while upon the earthly 
plane; 

He mistook me for a tyrant as a ruler of the poor. 

And went crazy on the topic that to kill me was the cure." 

In an instant Satan vanished and the light came from the 

skies, 
And McKinley, calmly smiling, stood before Czolgosz's 

eyes; 
Then a chorus of sweet voices sang the good old melody. 
With McKinley — eyes uplifted — "Nearer, My God, to 

Thee." 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 55 

The assassin's conscience smote him and McKinley knew 

full well 
That the poor, distracted spirit would not need a hotter 
hell. 

Poor St. Peter stood in silence when this solemn scene 

had passed, 
For a cloud of gloom and sorrow o'er his aged soul was 

cast; 
Knowing sinners in repentance would at once be made to 

see 
That old Satan is the conscience and from terror be set 

free. 
This would rob the dear old watchman of a soft eternal 

place. 
And no wonder gloom and sorrow came upon St. Peter's 

face, 
He had learned that Earth's religion had been changed 

in recent years, 
And that love had well supplanted all the old-time hates 

and fears. 
Thus in silence sat St. Peter, for he hated to complain, 
And he knew his own dethronement meant a universal 

gain. 
******** 

Now I see McKinley leading his poor murderer to a spot 
Where no sound could ever reach him; in a place that 

seemed forgot. 
Here he, smiling, bows and leaves him to the gloom that 

is his own. 
To the thoughts of his desertion in a desert, all alone. 
There to think out his existence in the darkness of his 

soul. 
There to ponder on his evil, there to drink from his own 

bowl. 
There he left him with his conscience that had battled all 

in vain 
To direct a high vibration through his poor deluded brain. 

For an age it seemed to Czolgosz while in darkness he 

remained 
Only conscious of his error and the punishment obtained. 
But at last — his soul so heavy that he thought he should 

expire — 



56 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

A great light loomed up before him like the flashing of a 

fire; 
It was then his earthly teachings of the preachers o'er 

him fell, 
Of the sinners and the Savior and the everlasting hell. 

Now I see the noble spirit of the martyred one descend 

From his home of light and beauty to his now repentant 
friend. 

He seemed filled with deep emotion as he took the fel- 
low's hand, 

And he lifted him up higher toward a bright and better 
land; 

And again I hear the voices of the angels from their 
height. 

They were singing with such sweetness — "Lead, Kindly 
Light." 

Each may have on earth his station whether high or 

whether low. 
Hell or heaven, his own creation, love and justice make 

it so. 
Each one has his life and duty, and each one his real 

worth ; 
Each must take what life has given, out beyond this 

rolling earth. 



LIKE MOTHER MADE OF YORE. 



Let me bubble o'er with trouble. 
Let me pass through woes galore, 

But give to me some hominy 
Like my mother made of yore. 

Good hominy, sweet hominy. 
Like my mother made of yore. 

This baker's bread that we are fed. 
Which is sold from every store, 

Is but a paste thrown up in haste 
Compared to that of yore. 

Good home-made bread give me instead, 
Like my mother made of yore. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 57 

Oh, give me back the old "flap- jack," 
With pure sorghum all spread o'er, 

And ginger-bread of brownish red, 
Like my mother made of yore. 

Oh, please do, make just one good cake 
Like my mother made of yore. 

I eat the grade they call home-made. 

Of all that is set before, 
But that milk and toast and turkey roast 

Like my mother made of yore — 
And cranberry sauce (I still feel the loss) — 

Like my mother made of yore. 

The old mince pie will never die 

Till I reach the shining shore, 
There's naught tastes now the same, somehow, 

As my mother made of yore. 
Please use for me the recipe 

That my mother used of yore. 



THE COLOR SOUL. 



Does not the beauteous rainbow hue 
Thy soul with love and strength imbue 
As out upon the cloud-mist wall 
The sun-rays in effulgence fall 
And blend all colors in a scroll. 
An emblem of the Color Soul? 

Who scans a crimson sun-set sky 
And purple clouds that linger nigh 
Without inbreathing from the view 
Some strength to soul and body, too, 
As something drawn from out the whole 
Of Nature's charming Color Soul? 

Who looks upon the sun-lit sea 

In all its blue-green majesty 

And draws not nearer to its shore 

To watch the waves and hear the roar, 

And sense the colors as they roll 

Upon the water's Color Soul? 



58 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Who looks upon the springtime bloom 
When flowers burst from Winter's tomb, 
Or out upon the hillside green, 
And sees not through this mortal screen 
The thing divine he would extol, 
Knows not sweet Nature's Color Soul. 



THE BEST PLACE FOR YOUR TROUBLES. 



Once I went into the woodland, o'er my woes to wail and cry, 
And I saw the grand old maples bow their leafy heads and 

sigh; 
Then I went down to the brooklet, all my troubles there to 

tell, 
And the waters laughed and watched me as upon my knees 

I fell. 

Once I walked about the hilltops, my soul sorrowings to air. 
And the bald old rocks just mocked me with their death-like 

silence there; 
Then I went into the valley with my aching heart bowed 

down. 
And the shadows hovered round me with a deep sarcastic 

frown. 

Once I strolled into the meadows in a moody, leisure way, 
And the daisies and the clover winked and nodded free and 

gay; 
Then I strolled into the orchard all my sadness to dispel, 
And the trees shook so with laughter that the blushing ap- 
ples fell. 

Once I went upon the -housetop to the Universe to pray. 
And the wind just whistled past me in a jolly sort of way. 
Then I went into my closet, there to grumble to myself. 
And my troubles quickly loosened, and I laid them on the 

shelf. 
***«***♦ 
In this poem lies a lesson that all persons ought to know: 
That the world will never listen to your bitter tales of woe 
In the sympathetic manner that you think is due yourself, 
So the best place for your troubles is the closet, on the 
shelf 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 59 

THE SONG OF SIIiENCE. 



There is grandeur in the thunder, in the clouds and light- 
ning's flash, 

And upon the proud old ocean as the waters leap and splash; 

There is grandeur in the sunlight, in the dew and falling 
rain, 

But the grandeur of the silence is the highest of this plane. 

All throughout the days and evenings sweet song-echoes 

fill the air; 
From the morn till night the cadence of sweet music ever? 

where 
Enchants our spirits, fills us, but the hush of night is far. 
Far sweeter, for 'tis restful from the sounds of life that jai 

In the busy hum of labor there is something to enthuse 
And enkindle thoughts of duty to the world that claims its 

dues; 
In. the lights that flash upon us from the lamp-posts on the 

street. 
There is music, but the voiceless song of silence bears the 

sweet. 

In the song-bird's happy warble in the woods along the 

stream 
There is music quite entrancing; aye, 'tis life's harmonic 

dream ; 
But when ev'ry song is ended and the soul has had its fill, 
There is room within the spirit for the song of silence still. 

When the babe lies on the bosom of its mother, fast asleep. 
There the voiceless song of silence calmly pulsates with the 

deep. 
Oh, the voiceless song of silence is the voice that has control 
Of the vibrant chords of Nature; 'tis the song of her sweet 

soul. 



If there is in motion, rpupose, then the ocean 
Has mighty purpose in its waves; 

Then to every motion the motor has a notion. 
To which all moving things are slaves. 



60 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

OUR ANCESTORS. 



When I look back from the present to the distant past I 
see 

That old, plain, well-trodden pathway of this great hu- 
manity. 

I can see those agile monkeys as they swing from limb to 
limb, 

As they cling with tails and fingers — and right there my 
eyes grow dim, 

For the race has so developed both in mind and self- 
esteem 

That the monkeys seem but kindred in a vague, delusive 
dream. 

Until Darwin caught the notion of the "monad unto man," 
The human race accepted the old Eve and Adam plan. 
It was told them in a fable and the fable made a law. 
And the foolish masses took it as from God, without a 

flaw. 
And to think of any science was a crime most deep and 

black, 
Which was punished by the torture of the thumb-screw 

and the rack. 

But in spite of that old fable and the fiendish priestly 

scheme. 
The mind would not be longer held by that delusive 

dream; 
And they tell us now through science, that the "missing 

link is found. 
And that man is to the monkey in an obligation bound. 
So in casting glances backward to the distant past I see 
My own happy kindred swinging by their tails up in a tree. 

Hence, I seldom wander backward in my dreams beyond 

my birth, 
For it makes me rather gloomy to be fastened to the 

earth 
When my kindred took such pleasure, and perhaps a life 

of ease, 
With their crude and thoughtless natures, in their homes 

'mong the trees. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 6l, 

And it makes me deeply wonder if unfoldment of a mind. 
And the dark attending troubles are the acme of man- 
kind. 



WHAT ARE TEARS? 



Tears are but the blessed raindrops from a dark and 

clouded sky; 
They are water to the spirit that with sunlight has gone 

dry; 
They are dewdrops, sweetest moisture to the verdure of 

the soul; 
Just a needed irrigation from life's flowing fountain bowl. 

When the soul is full of sorrow and the heart bowed 

down in woe, 
There is such sublime fruition in a tearful overflow. 
When the cloud of anguish hovers o'er the spirit deep in 

gloom. 
Gentle teardrops are so welcome to hope's smothered, 

hindered bloom. 

Ah! sweet, blessed tears of heaven flowing o'er life's lone- 
ly vale. 

Slake the thirst of passioned nature when some awful 
woes prevail. 

Next to sleep and rest and joy are tears a healing balm, 

And to spirit tempest-tossed they always bring a calm. 

Little teardrops are a blessing to a soul that cannot rise; 
They so often bring the sunlight to the cloudy, murky 

skies. 
So refreshing and reviving to the withered leaves of life; 
So consoling, so composing to the mind in pain and strife. 



What's the use of posing as an angel or a God, 
When we are only spirit entombed in earthly clod. 
The same as all our brothers and sisters on this plane? 
To try to get above them would ever be in vain. 



62 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

ODE TO MOTHERHOOD. 



Motherhood! Sweet Motherhood! Life's fountain bowl, 
Filled with soul to its utmost; thou source of soul! 

Grand, beautiful Motherhood! most sacred state 
Of all being; the whole world calleth thee great! 

All worship thee, Motherhood, bosom of love; 

All know that thy mission comes down from above. 

Thy pathway, O Motherhood, rocky and rough 
Though it be, is Motherhood; that is enough. 

What could be more to thy praise, when understood. 
Than that thou art divine, sweet Motherhood. 

Thy love has no foibles as to the good 

Of thy children, O loyal, true Motherhood. 

No hands with thy tenderness furnish the food 
For those of thy family, grand Motherhood. 

Thy passionless love will e'er stand over all, 
While passionate love with the passion may fall. 

No force in the universe thy duty could 
Ever in life execute, sweet Motherhood. 

Tender young Motherhood! Beautiful Wife! 
Darling old Motherhood! Beautiful Life! 



TROUBLES OF ITS OWN. 



Oh, how proud we are of telling all our petty pains and 

woes. 
And how seldom people sympathize 'most ev'rybody 

knows. 
When we sigh with deepest sorrow, or in agony we groan. 
This old world takes little notice; it has troubles of its 

own. 

While it always seems relieving just to tell it on the spot. 
And for fear without the telling it too soon will be forgot. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 63 

It does little good to tell it to the common heart of stone, 
For it finds the world too busy with the troubles of its 
own. 

It were just as well to tell it to the grand and noble trees 
That are moved to some emotion by the whisper of the 

breeze, 
But you must not tell it thinking you have troubles all 

alone, 
For the world will echo back to you, it has troubles of its 

own. 

When you hear a friend recounting all the woes he has to 

bear. 
You are sure to feel within you that you have had your 

share. 
And you try to make impressive to your friend in word or 

tone 
That the world around about him has deep troubles of its 

own. 

Ah! the time to be most watchful is when others are most 

blue, 
Oft the clouds that hover 'round them can be brushed 

away by you. 
And you cannot drown the troubles of another with a 

moan. 
But a smile will oft relieve him of the troubles of his own. 



MOTHER NATURE'S CHILD. 



Let me linger here in poverty with others who are poor, 
Lest a greed for gold withhold me from a grand celestial 

tour. 
Let me join misfortune's army and be wholly reconciled 
To whatever may befall me; I am Mother Nature's Child. 

Let me weep with those who sorrow, let me suffer others' 

pain. 
And within my conscience ever satisfaction entertain. 
Let my spirit take its freedom and my soul be undefiled; 
Let no shackle bind and hold me; I am Mother Nature's 

Child. 



64 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Let me go and talk to Nature by the brooklet in the 

spring; 
Let my rhythmic soul there warble with the happy birds 

that sing; 
Let me touch the trees that quiver in the breezes blowing 

wild, 
Let me sleep upon Earth's bosom; I am Mother Nature's 

Child. 
Let the sunlight kiss my forehead and the evening, wet 

with dew. 
Soothe my eyelids down in slumber till the earth is passed 

from view. 
And my soul be bathed in sweetness from the fountain 

undefiled. 
In a world that understands me; I am Mother Nature's 

Child. 

I am one of Nature's children, I am one within the whole; 
I must be as Nature made me; in true harmony with soul. 
I must live and love forever as my Mother Nature styled, 
For within my very being I am Mother Nature's Child. 



LET US FILL OUR HIGHEST MISSION. 



Let us be ourselves, and perfect as we know we ought 
to be; 

Let us retrospect a moment for the wrong our neigh- 
bors see, 

And before we censure others let us always look 
within, 

For sometimes the fault is plainer 'neath our own ob- 
scuring skin. 

Let us cast a little sunlight where there seems to hang 

a cloud; 
Let us rather raise the living than to offer them a 

shroud ; 
Let us act like loving brothers and like angel sisters 

here 
And thus fill the world with pleasure while we live 

V. ithin this sphere. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 65 

There are downcast hearts now breaking that to 

heaven make appeal ; 
There are those about us starving while we take our 

splendid meal ; 
There are mothers and their children who are needing 

clothes and bread; 
Let us aid our fellows living and let Nature aid the 

dead. 

We have need to be more earnest and uplifting with 
the sad; 

We have need to be more thoughtful and forgiving of 
the bad, 

For we know down deep within them, 'neatli the 
shadow that is dark, 

There exists the Great Eternal, Nature 's bright evolv- 
ing spark. 

We have need to be more perfect, wiser ; wear a beam- 
ing face ; 

We have need to be unfolding, and to help unfold the 
race. 

There are diamonds bright and sparkling, far more 
precious than of earth, 

For the loving and forgiving, in the higher spirit 
birth. 

There is much in life to live for, much upon this earth 
to do; 

Much to sow and much to harvest on our transmigra- 
tion through. 

Here to gain the earthly wisdom; here to hold, ad- 
vance and grow, 

Let us fill our highest mission on this earth before we 
go. 



Though God is just and is a judge, according to report, 
The Devil keeps an awful smudge around his open court, 
To make of man the ruler's tool by forcing him to crime: 
To make of him for both a fool, to serve each one in time. 



66 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

WHERE IS GOD? 



"Oh, where is God?" you ask me, and your answer echoes 

loud: 
"Out there in space, in sunshine, in the rain and passing 

cloud; 
In all the force of Nature in the mighty universe. 
Unmoved by tears or pleadings, and unmoved by prayer 

or curse. 

**A force, a power unmeasured, and immeasurable by 
man; 

The strength, the source and progress down within this 
worldly plan." 

Yes, I know him in my spirit, and I know I am in tune, 

For down deep within the silence I with Nature can com- 
mune. 

In the pretty little baby, in the rainbow and the rose. 
In the mother, in the ocean, and the very wind that blows; 
In the peaceful, budding Springtime, in the Summer and 

the Fall, 
In the Winter, when Dame Nature puts a shrouding over 

all. 



EP YOU ONLY GOT DE DOUGH. 



You may talk ob yo' religion, but down here it's sartin 

sho' 
Dat de basis ob dat article's a pocket full ob dough. 

Chorus — Ef you only got de dough you is free to come 

an' go. 
An' de people ob America will bow down low; 
You can make conditions fit an' can be er real "IT," 
Ef you only got yo' pockets full ob dough. 

You kin buy yo' way to hebben from de gutter here below, 
An' de preachers dey will bless you, ef you only got de 

dough. 
Chorus — Ef you only got de dough. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 67 

Ef yo' leg broke doctah men' it, an' dey'll wipe away yo' 

woe; 
An' you gits a pull on Jesus, ef you only got de dough. 
Chorus — Ef you only got de dough. 

You kin corneh all de churches, make de preachers preach 

jes' so; 
You can regerlate religion, ef you only got de dough. 
Chorus — Ef you only got de dough. 

It's no mattah 'bout de cullah; dat ar cuts no ice no mo'; 
You can pass by ol' St. Petah, ef you only got de dough. 
Chorus — Ef you only got de dough. 

But dey pile de sulphuh 'fore you till you see it all aglow, 
An' you feel you flesh a burnin', of you haint got any 
dough. 

Chorus — Ef you haint got any dough dey will roas' you 

sartin sho*, 
An' de Christians ob dis kentry will bow down low, 
But you'll make a splendid hit, an' will be a real "IT,'* 
Ef you only got yo' pockets full ob dough. 



WHAT IS LOVE? 



Is that on earth called perfect love in spirit realm the 

same? 
Does it come from God above, to gain a form and name? 
Is it but a sexly raving — a magnetic cord of earth, 
Binding mate to mate in craving to express in birth? 

Is all this soulful, unseen power within each molecule 

grown 
But as life within the flower, and love its fragrant tone? 
Or is the soul in mortal state but part of that great whole 
Sent out to find a mate and cast another soul? 

Is love the life? is life the God? is God the soul of things? 
Is soul the germ within the pod, the power unfolding 

brings? 
Is every atom filled with soul? has every soul a sex? 
Has every soul within that whole a mate it should annex.? 



68 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Then God is soul; then God is love; then God is law and 

power; 
Then we are gods — not far above the fragrant little 

flower. 
But if all things are born from thought, in love's adher^ 

ing power, 
Then we are through that law outwrought from God, as 

is the flower. 

The whole distinction is our breath — our thought eternal 

part; 
Each evolves in change called death, other forms to start. 
As ever from the fountain flows new souls to bud and 

bloom 
On earth, again each blooms and grows for aye, beyond 

the tomb. 

Forever reaching, swelling, growing, grasping, clinging 

to. 
Taking, giving, upward going, wanting what is due; 
Thus evolving, thus revolving, changing ever by 
The law — adhering and dissolving — always low to high. 

Thus in loving and attracting, we but work to aid 
Eternal motion, ever acting in the niche that's made. 
Naught that is will e'er be wasted — by time be washed 

away, 
Naught in life that love has tasted can be lost in cold 

decay. 



THOSE LITTLE RINGLETS OF HAIR. 



Only a few little ringlets of hair, 

All clipped when my children were small, 

When my heart was well loaded with care; 
Just a few little curls, that is all. 

And yet they are ever so dear and fair 
As I look on their case on the wall. 

Only a few little curls, did I say? 

Not so, for sweet mem'ries are there; 
The same tender kisses forever will stay; 

And those eyes that so sleepily stare, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 69 

Though all have grown up and away, 
Come back with those ringlets of hair. 

Still heaves this old bosom the same; 

Still beam those dear faces as fair; 
Still thrills with emotion this frame; 

Again my sweet baby is bare; 
I sense those boneless gums; a name 

Returns with each ringlet of hair. 

It seems but a dream, a draem of some sweet. 
Some precious occurrence out there, 

Where angels and fairies in blissful retreat 
Bright mansions for mothers prepare, 

Or like a bright vision of hope, fair and fleet. 
When I gaze at those ringlets of hair. 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 



The tree may lose its strongest limb. 

Its leaves may sear and fall, 
And Winter throw, so cold and grim, 

Its mantle over all, 
But like a victor that must sleep 

To gain a peaceful breath, 
In Spring Life wakes from Nature's deep 

And says, "There is no death." 

Fierce storms may come and devastate 

Man's work, and even man, 
And flood and flame make desolate 

The plain, and yet Life's plan 
Again will raise o'er ash and earth 

Another beauteous heath; 
Another man and works have birth 

And shout — "There is no death!" 

The earth may quake, the mountains burst 

And sink to rise no more; 
Another, greater than the first 

Will rise 'mid ocean's roar 
To tell of evolution's law. 



70 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

To tell what Nature saith 

In vibrant Life, without a flaw; 

"O, Man, There is no death'" 



I TREAD, I TREAD, I TREAD. 



How oft have I crawled from my restful bed 
Reluctant, and tired of the toil and tread 
Of the rocky road behind and ahead, 
And envied the peace and rest of the dead. 
But I tread, I tread, I tread, 
And envy the peace of the dead. 

Sometimes I get cross at the grey peep of dawn. 
At thoughts of the day, with its grind coming on. 
And wish that the night, and the rest that is gone. 
Had been a last pause for the breath that was drawn. 
But I tread, I tread, I tread. 
And envy the peace of the dead. 

I hear the old clock as it strikes off the time. 
Like the voice of a foe from a bleak, frozen clime, 
And I wish 'twas the toll of my funeral chime, 
Or the stalking of Death, that friend so sublime. 
But I tread, I tread, I tread, 
And envy the peace of the dead. 

I hear the sweet chirp of a bird on the sill. 
The tap on the roof of a woodpecker's bill, 
And I bid myself rise and work with a will, 
As others are doing in the old treadmill. 
But I tread, I tread, I tread. 
And envy the peace of the dead. 

'Tis either a grind, a tread or a rust, 
'Tis either a fight or be ground in the dust, 
Then labor and fight and suffer I must. 
To grind out the bread and get but the crust. 
So I tread, I tread, I tread. 
And envy the peace of the dead. 

Each planet must grind in its own special place; 
Each sun must throw rays from its own brilliant face; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 71 

Each woman and man in the whole human race, 
Must grind and must tread in the past ages' trace. 
So I tread, I tread, I tread, 
And envy the peace of the dead. 



INVOCATION— TO THE "ALMIGHTY DOLLAR. 



Almighty Dollar! Governor, Benefactor, Friend; 
All our invocations to Thee we hereby extend, 
And ask Thy presence in every quarter of the land; 
Rule us with Thine ever loving and powerful hand. 
Without Thee we are hut a drop in the deep, deep sea. 
In sickness, in jail, in church, naught without Thee, only 
Thee. 

We are Thy humble slaves. Thy servants, lowly, meek and 
mild. 

Dependent on Thee for food, for drink, and are unrecon- 
ciled 

Till the glory of Thy brightness we behold, then we know 

No harm can come to our bodies or souls from high nor 
low. 

And in Thine all-potent power, that makes the lawless 
men 

And women laws obey, we praise Thee, Lord, again — 
again. 

Surrounded by all tempters, delusive signboards and 

snares 
Of selfish corporations and of multimillionaires. 
We feel that we are in the midst of Thy chosen few. 
Under the bright light of Thine all-seeing eye, born anew; 
Therefore we raise our voice to Thee in gracious thank- 
fulness. 
That out of Life's eternal fountain Thou hast come to 
bless. 

Thou art above all juries and judges esteemed most high; 

In every teardrop, every smile, in every sigh, 

In every place, every bank, in every spire, 

In every church-house, every school; Thou dost not tire 



72 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Of the poor man's prayers for more of Thee in his own 

purse, 
Nor at the rich man's pull at Thy golden universe. 

Thou art the handmaid of religion, and polluter, too; 
Dost make heavens and hells, and give the rich the poor 

man's due; 
Dost raise "blind pigs" and drunkards; gamblers, large 

and small, to fleece 
The weary, wandering honest man of wealth and peace; 
Dost throw bewitching smiles before unwary, idle youth, 
And art the idol, aye, the God of all the world, in truth. 

Thou art upon every tongue, in every mind also; 
The object and aim of every human here below; 
The ambition and motive, power, and passion of man; 
Destroyer of virtue, yet under virtue's potent plan; 
Within the good, within the bad, Thou art the God of all; 
Before Thee all must rise and stand, or at Thy feet must 
bow and fall. 



There's a white horse — you may be near it- 
Whose name is Death — but never fear it — 

That is gentle, kind and true; 
Whose tread is firm — you may not cheer it— 
With silent breath; — you will not hear it — 

Who will sometime come for you. 



To-day the cloud of despair may be black, 

But what is the use of whining? 
The beautiful glow of the sun just back 
Produces a silver lining. 



Since the Christians have discovered 
That no infants are in Hell, 

Every nose has been uncovered. 
Every tongue now seeks to tell 
How good the God is. 



In the past, when superstition held man and mind In sway. 
By sword and torch-forced contrition, the rulers had their 
day. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



73 



COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL IN HEAVEN. 



Poetical Depiction of the Colonel's Labors in Spirit Life, 
From a Spiritualistic Viewpoint. 



"A good deed is the best prayer; a loving life is the best 
religion." — Ingersoll. 




COL. INGERSOLL 
Is Still Teaching the 
Gospel of Free Tho't 
and Human Liberty. 

mm** 



As I sit in the twilight dreaming of 
life's many, many woes, 

To that dear old soul, St. Peter, all 
my tender feeling goes. 

He has had his share of trouble in 
our modern Christian days. 

In deciding and consigning those of 
good and wicked ways, 

And there is no cause for doubting 
that since Ingersoll arrived 

The great horde of knowing preach- 
ers of much joy have been de- 
prived. 

It is well they did their roasting of 

the Colonel over here; 
It is well they had their pleasures 

over him this side the bier. 
For his eloquence and reason e'en 

St. Peter cannot stand. 
And his wisdom will be whispered 

all about the spirit land. 

Many preachers had consigned him 

to the hottest place in hell. 
But St. Peter cannot put him 'mong 

the preachers very well. 
And when Robert gets to talking 

and disseminating fun, 
Even Satan and his angels will soon 

start upon the run. 
******** 



74 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Now I seem to see the Colonel, who was never known to 

shirk, 
Making gestures toward old Satan, as he warms up to his 

work. 
And His Majesty subsiding 'neath the Colonel's sparkling 

wit, 
And the heavens growing brighter as with wisdom's fires 
lit. 

And I wonder and conjecture as to how the Colonel fares 
With the gates all closed against him just because to doubt 

he dares. 
And while thinking thus my visions soothed me down into 

a sleep, 
Till my spirit, fully conscious, passed beyond the misty 

deep. 

Yes, a real sleep enwrapt me and I saw within my dream, 
The old Colonel and St.Peter at the gate, with eyes agleam. 
Both in earnest; but St. Peter seemed wrought up in very 

fear. 
While the Colonel seemed illumined with a halo of good 

cheer. 

As I watched in deepest pleasure earth's bright scintillat- 
ing star. 

Old St. Peter touched a button and the gates swung wide 
ajar. 

But the Colonel stood there talking to his enemies below. 

Till the tears they shed repentant made the heavens over- 
flow. 

There were preachers, deacons, sisters, who had always 

hated him. 
Who were loudly now applauding with appreciative vim. 
In the spirit they could see him as they saw him ne'er 

before. 
And his language was so charming they kept begging him 

for more. 

While their eyes on ^arth were blinded by their selfishness 

and greed, 
He could only wound their feelings by attacking their old 

creed. 
But up there where all is spirit he is making Christians see 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



75 



That their God was but a fiction of the ancient history. 
It was fun to hear him tell them what their old religion 

cost 
In the sacrifice of people whom they always taught were 
lost: 

"You have cut out tongues 
of victims, you have torn 
men limb from limb. 
You have slaughtered moth- 
ers, babies, and spread 
terror dark and grim. 
And now here you stand in 
darkness, still awaiting 
that great day 
When the Savior will re- 
ward you with his love 
— your fancied pay; 
And yonder in the distance 
* you observe the shining 

throne 

That for ages has been 

standing in your narrow 

brains alone; 

Has been standing as a 

' monument in spirit land 

to tell 
The sad stories of the vic- 
tims whom you thought 
had gone to hell. 
"See it flashing! see it shining! see it glimmer in the sun! 
Read upon its rusting surface all the crimes that have 

been done 
In the name of your religion on the earthly plane, and 

weep 
Till a raging flood of teardrops o'er your souls is running 

deep, 
And you cannot then atone for all the misery you wrought; 
You will find your cruel actions will come back to you un- 
sought, 
And with these few clinching pointers ringing clearly as a 

bell, 
The good Colonel left his hearers standing facing their 
own hell. 




ST. PETER 

Expostulating With the Colo- 
nel About the Throne. 



76 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

'Twas a treat to stand and watch them, here and there a 

little squad, 
All discussing Robert's lecture and his picture of their 

God. 

I could see them nod and gesture as they stood in twilight 

dim. 
But they soon sank back in darkness as their hate returned 

for him; 
And as for the placid Colonel, he arose and left the place. 
With a twinkle in his optics and a smile upon his face, 
Just as if the task was pleasant, and a satisfaction still. 
To pull down old Superstition and destroy the gospel mill. 



After resting just a moment to renew his strength a bit. 

He passed over to St. Peter, who invited him to sit; 

Then the Colonel, brightly smiling, questioned Peter o'er 

and o'er, 
Of the "earthly church delusion, filled with falsehood to 

the core." 

There he sat and coolly plied him with the questions he 

had stored. 
Of the mansions and the Savior, and the saintly singing 

horde : 
"Is there, sir, a God? a heaven where the saints immortal 

dwell? 
And for all the rest a hades, an eternal burning hell? 
If the God is omnipresent and omnipotent beside, 
And an all-wise, loving Father, aye, all good personified, 
For awhile, sir, let me see him, only for a little while; 
Should I find him as they tell me, I shall give up with a 

smile." 

"Nay, I cannot," says St. Peter, in a sort of undertone, 

"None but Jesus, Lord and Master, can approach the Fath- 
er's throne." 

"Then the Master," said the Colonel, "kindly summon to 
appear. 

For if God exists I'll know it; I must gain His holy ear." 

At the boldness of the Colonel, old St. Peter looked 
aggrieved. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



77 



^V 



For he knew that he had found one whom the church had 

not deceived. 
He began to show a weakness that soon reached the Colo- 
nel's eye, 
And he knew at once St. Peter was mixed up in that old 
lie. 

It was then the Colonel 
started to explore the 
ancient shack. 
That with age and wear 
had crumbled to a 
shell all grim and 
black, 
When a form loomed 
up before him like the 
ghost of some old 
saint, 
But the Colonel did not 
tremble or fall down 
in death-like faint. 

With a twinkle of 
good humor and a 
smile both rich and 
bland, 
He just walked up to his 
ghostship and reached 
MOSES, out a friendly hand, 

And the Preachers Whose Small When the form began to 
Intellects Make Them Still Obe- beckon as though call- 
dient to the Old Commandments. ing up from space 
Someone else to come and help him barricade the holy 

place; 
But the spectre soon impressed him with a gesture and a 

nod, 
That around the ancient palace, now, he need not hunt 

for God; 
And he "need not hunt for preachers, as each has his pri- 
vate cell, 
Where he stays in constant terror of the man who upset 

hell"; 
"But I'll take you to a region," spake the spectre, "where, 
'tis said 




?8 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

There was once a great Jehovah with a crown upon his 

head; 
Where the preachers from your planet used to gather, 

sing and pray 
For the promise in the Bible for the 'good on judgment 

day/ " 

Then he led him to an altar that seemed built of solid gold, 
But the place was dark and gloomy and threw up a scent 

of mould. 
"Here," began the guiding spectre, "is supposed to be the 

throne 
Where the great and good Jehovah sat for ages all alone. 
Till Confucius and your Jesus and some others I could 

name 
From upon your little planet, as the people's Saviors came. 
And began to hold their meetings in contention for a place. 
And their wrangle and their jangle so disturbed His 

Mighty Grace, 
That He called them all together in a 'Council of the 

Right,' . 
And they wrangled and they jangled till they broke up 

Heaven, quite. 
Now, sir, this is all the story; as I got it so I tell; 
But they say down on your planet, it was you extinguished 

hell. 
And they fear you and your reason, hence your presence 

do not hail. 
Lest you turn the little heaven of their souls into a jail." 

It was thus the guide recited all he knew of history. 

All he knew of Heaven's people and the God that used to be. 

All the while the Colonel listened with that twinkle in his 

eye; 
He had heard upon this planet oft the same old musty lie. 
And he knew that old St. Peter, all the ages past had 

known 
Of this scheme to catch the people and control the "great 

white throne." 

He discovered in this Heaven, to his sorrow and disgust, 
That St. Peter was a holder of much stock in Christian 

trust; 
He discovered that a corner had been gained by old St. 

Paul, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 79 

And the "big ones" had just driven all the "small ones" to 

the wall; 
He discovered that the Savior ',7as no higher than Tom 

Paine, 
And Jehovah there no nearer than upon the earthly plane. 

He was glad to meet St. 
^ Peter as he sat there 
at the gate, 

For it livened up his 
journey in that great 
immortal state. 

But he found no place 
in Heaven where he 
thought he'd care to 
stay. 

For the place was small 
and dismal and was 
sadly in decay. 

It was builded to the 
notion of the minds 
so long ago 

That the modern man, 
developed, would find 
rooms too small and 
low. 

ST. PAXIL "It is changed," St. 

Exhorting His Disciples Against Peter told him, "till 
the Eloquent Agnostic and His the place seems new 
^'Pernicious, Noxious Doctrine." and strange," 

But his saintship seemed enjoying all the features of the 

change. 
And though old he had adopted all the fads of modern 

thought, 
Just to hold down his position that the younger saints had 

sought. 

Bob was shown the great Elijah, who resembles Dowie 

some. 
And was told how he "to Heaven in a chariot had come." 
He was shown the dear old Moses, and old David and his 

folks. 
And old Jonah and old Daniel, who had figured in the 

hoax. 




80 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

He was shown the face of Noah and of Adam and of Eve, 
And he wondered such a woman, plump and pretty, could 

deceive. 
He was shown the massive fog-horn that old Gabriel will 

blow, 
And the Colonel spoke of leaving, but they wouldn't let 

him go. 

In my dream the Colonel told me all the sights he had been 
shown, 

And he said he thought the spirit of progression there had 
grown, 

Till the only hell and heaven that the spirit there could 
find, 

Were conditions each one brought there in the conscious- 
ness of mind, 

That Jehovah means the center of all power and all life. 

And the Devil means the center of all error, pain and 

strife. 
******** 

No one knows what is beyond us; no one knows what lies 

in wait; 
No one knows from the beginning what will be his coming 

fate; 
When we close our eyelids mortal in our soul we catch a 

gleam 
Of a bright and shining portal and we linger in that dream. 

On this side it seems but justice for the good to stand 

above 
And apart from all the vicious if they build their homes 

with love. 
And all know the brainy Colonel towered far above his 

foes, 
For he always met them kindly when in anger they arose. 
It was not the men he battled, but their binding, blinding 

creed ; 
It was not the persons hated, but old superstition's seed. 



In my soul I see him fighting, leading on across the way. 
At the head of hosts of people in the light of modern day; 
Hear him talking to immortals who in darkness have been 
lost, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 8 5. 

Or upon the sea of trouble in a shipwrecked boat were 
tossed; 

Hear his words of wisdom falling like the dewdrops on 
each head, 

Like the morning sunlight beaming o'er the verdure al- 
most dead. 

His great soul, so full of splendor and from earthly labors 

free, 
Still is weaving words of power for eternal liberty, 
And his high and tender spirit with his true, unselfish love, 
Soon will lift the veil of darkness from those fogy eyes 

above. 



As I wake from slumber visions I can see the Colonel still, 
Aud he seems pursuing preachers with the same deter- 
mined will, 
With the object still before him to make superstition flee 
E'en from Heaven, if infected, and to make all people free. 



THAT MOTHER-'N-LAW. 



There's a person meanly rated who is oft without a 

flaw, 
And that's no other being than the average mother 'n- 

law. 
Oft the papers madly roast her when they try to be 

real smart, 
But they cannot altogether know the fullness of her 

heart. 

When a husband goes to dinner, if a husband good 

and true, 
He expects his wife to meet him in a manner that is 

due, 
But he oft lets passion rule him as he fills his empty 

craw, 
And skulks off to some gay club-house to escape his 

mother 'n-l aw. 



82 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

He can joke his wife and tease her, he can take her 
witty flings; 

He can give and take with kindness many kindly cut- 
ting things, 

But his feeling rises madly to the level of his jaw, 

At a cut from her old mother^ for she 's his mother 'n- 
law. 

He forgets 'twas she who gave him that "dear treas- 
ure of his life ' ' ; 

He forgets that she's the mother of his tender loving 
wife; 

He forgets that his own coldness makes the bonds the 
tighter draw ; 

He forgets that his own mother is his wife's own 
mother 'n-law. 

Man may win a girl's affection and by law make her 

his own. 
But the law of love and duty are the mother's law 

alone. 
Men oft leave their wives for trifles, some imaginary 

flaw. 
Then lay all domestic troubles to "an awful mother 'n- 

law." 

But the angels are not truer in their watchfulness and 

care, 
Than a mother to her children; she will all man's 

curses dare. 
Ah ! the child that once she fondled lies forever near 

her heart. 
And no man by club-house tactics e 'er will pull the tie 

apart. 

There may be times when she is wrong, but oftener 
she is right, 

Ajid the man who calls her "terror," better search 
for inner light, 

For the chances are, within himself there is the awful 
flaw, 

That he'd point to as a mountain— within his moth- 
er 'n-law. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 83 

THOSE DEAR OLD SONGS. 



Oh, how oft we hear those voices 
That we heard in days of yore, 
While each pulsing heart rejoices, 

And each spirit smiles once more. 
As we hear those same tones ringing 

That we heard in bygone days, 
And the same sweet voices singing 
All those richest old-time lays: 
Way down upon the Suanee Riber, 

Far, far away 
Bar's wha' my heart is turning eber; 

Dar's wha' de ole folks stay. 
All up an' down de whole creation. 

Sadly I roam; 
Still longing for de ole plantation. 

An' for de ole folks at home. 
All de worl' am sad an' dreary, 

Every wha' I roam; 
Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary. 

Far from de ole folks at home. 

As we hear the echoes dying, 

And our souls seem dying too. 
Like the gentle zephyrs sighing. 

Other voices start anew. 
And with force each voice is ringing 

Loudly, then with soft refrain, 
We can hear those voices singing, 

Bringing back old times again: 

Years have come and passed away, 
Golden locks have turned to gray; 
Golden ringlets once so fair. 
Time has changed to silvery hair. 
I am nearing the river side. 
Soon I'll be upon the tide; 
Soon my boat with noiseless oar 
Safe will pass to yon bright shore. 
Bring my harp to me again. 
Let me hear its gentle strain; 
Let me touch those chords once more 
Ere I pass to yon bright shore. 



84 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

And ere the sweet refrain is ended, 

Once again the strains arise. 
With those voices interblended, 

Floating upward toward the skies. 
'Tis those same sweet voices ringing. 

Smoothly on, without a trill; 
Those gentle, old-time voices ringing. 

Echoing down the ages still: 

Nearer, My God, to Thee; 

Nearer to Thee! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me; 
Still all my song shall be. 
Nearer, My God, to Thee! 

Nearer to Thee! 

Then, as if all Nature's being 

Was uprising from the tomb, 
And the Soul of Life was fleeing 

From its prison-wall of doom, 
Sweetly rises from the ashes 

Of the past religious throng, 
A new light that bursts and flashes; 

'Tis this dear enthusing song: 

Work, for the night is coming; 

Work, through the morning hours; 
Work, while the dew is sparkling; 

Work 'mid the springing flowers; 
Work when the day grows brighter, 

Work in the glowing sun; 
Work, for the night is coming, 

When man's work is done. 

Then again with cheerful query, 

We arise from toils of earth, 
While the day seems dark and dreary, 

And receive another birth; 
As the stars from skies o'erclouded 

Peep and brush the clouds along, 
Human souls, though long enshrouded, 

Echo back this sweet old song: 

Shall we meet beyond the river, 
Where the surges cease to roll? 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS 85 

Where in all the bright forever, 

Sorrows ne'er shall press the soul? 

Shall we meet? Shall we meet? 
Shall we meet beyond the river? 

Shall we meet beyond the river, 
Where the surges cease to roll? 

Higher, higher rise the voices, 

As if gladdened by the view; 
While each human soul rejoices 

O'er a look beyond the blue. 
And the gates of Heaven, creaking 

On their hinges, open wide 
To the souls who light are seeking, 

Just across the Great Divide: 
There's a land that is fairer than day, 

And by faith we can see it afar; 
For the Father waits over the way 

To prepare us a dwelling place there. 
In the sweet by-and-by, 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore. 
In the sweet by-and-by. 

We shall meet on that beautiful shore. 

Oh, how grand will be the meeting. 

In that spiritual clime. 
With each kindred soul there greeting. 

Loving with a love sublime. 
While the very spheres are ringing. 
With the dear old songs of yore. 
And each risen soul is singing 

With the dear old friends once more. 
'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam. 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
Which seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere. 
Home, home, sweet, sweet home. 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. 
Rejoice and be glad! We have found our spirit home. 

And no more in earthly byways must our weary spirit 
roam! 

Sound the praises! tell the story 

Of the tapping on the wall. 

When the brilliant light of glory 

Shed its radiance over all. 



86 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

RING OUT, YE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 



Ring out, ye merry tinkle of ye bells on Christmas day! 

Let all of earth be joyous in their own peculiar way! 

Let all the Christian soldiers lay down their arms and 

pray, 
For Jesus came to conquer, but came not to curse and slay. 

Lay down the dimes and dollars, for the poor, the sick and 

sore; 
Their shelter and provision, and give food from their own 

store; 
Go hunt the haunts of squalor that exist so near their 

door; 
Relieve some fallen victim of their superstitious lore. 

Ring out, ye bells of Christmas! let them mock the souls 

so low 
In selfishness their money is the only god they know. 
Remind them that their Savior is not greed and pulpit 

blow, 
But a love that makes the dollars the best and farthest go. 

Remind them there are others not so fortunate as they. 
And the law that made them prosper is the law that takes 

away. 
Remind them that true justice is a hand they cannot sway. 
And the deeds of good and evil will return another day. 



THE TURItEY'S PRAYER. 



Oh, Lord, I know I'm fat and sleek- 
Just right for Christian plate; 

But hear me, Lord! to Thee I speak: 
Oh, save me from such fate! 

I do not dread to die for man. 
And man I do not hate; 

But with such stuff I never can, 
Oh, Lord, assimilate. 

There's oyster dressing, salad, jam, 
Cranberry sauce and wine, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 87 

Cheese, pumpkin pie, and flesh of lamb 
To mingle with is mine. 

Woe is mine, oh, Lord, is mine, 

A victim of man's greed, 
I am theirs and they are thine, 

Oh, bless them while they feed. 

They cannot worship Thee until 

They gorge themselves on me. 
And when of me they get their fill. 

Through them I'll worship Thee. 



BEAUTIFUL LIFE — ANNIVERSARY POEM. 



Through all the years since '48: the voice of Life has said, 
"There is no death; the friends of old and kindred are not 

dead." 
When all the world was down in gloom Life rapped upon 

the door 
And said to man: "There is no death; the spirit passes 

o'er." 

Around the grave where man supposed his loved ones 

sleeping lay. 
Life lingered until '48, and rolled the stone away. 

Then forth from parts before unknown a voice immortal 

spoke 
That raised the soul of man above old Superstition's yoke. 

Truth illumined the human soul, the scale fell from the 

eye. 
And all the world in sweet relief gave vent to one grand 

sigh. 

When Life appeared above the grave and in the darkness 

spoke. 
Old Death passed on and out of sight, and sleeping souls 

awoke. 

The old dead grass and drooping heads of flowers 'round 
the tomb 



88 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

All heard the voice of Life, and sprang to meet her and to 
bloom. 

The Earth for ages closely wrapped within Death's gloomy 

shroud, 
Arose to meet Eternal Life and shout its joys aloud. 

The stars seem brighter then they were, the moon has 

brighter hue 
Since Life appeared, eclipsing Death, and saying: "They 

live too." 

The dust and must of ages were cleaned up with one pure 

breath 
Of Life, and all the earth seemed glad to know there was 

no Death. 

"We live! We live! We cannot die!" arisen spirits cry, 
"We change from sphere to sphere, and grow, but never, 
never die." 

O Life! Beautiful Life! in Thee we find our heaven here; 
In Death we find the golden gateway to a higher sphere. 



UNCLE BBN SEES A *'SHADDER.' 



I kin see dem shinin' eyeballs now whareber I may look. 
An* de shuders dey pass fru me lak de lizard fru de brook. 
An' I kaint fin' any comfoht in dis worl' now enywhar, 
Foh de hantin' ob er presence, lak er shadder, black ez tar. 

An' de preacher man done tol' me hit wuz Satan dat I saw, 
Dat de Massa put him on me kase I broke some mor'l law. 
But I kaint tink now foh sartin jist what law I done gone 

broke. 
An' I jist belieb dat preacher man tol' me dat fer er joke. 

I hez got ter see de body an' de hoofs an' fo'ked toil 
Er I kaint belieb de debil ya'n ner git down heah an' wail, 
Fer I neber stole er chicken dat wuz roos'in' out ob reach, 
Ner I neber stained my conshens in er tryin' fer ter preach. 

I's done been ter many meetin's an' I's heerd 'em pray an' 
shout, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 89 

Fer der Lawd ter show his mercy by er washin' ob 'em out, 
An' I riz right up an' tol' em dat de bes' way fer ter do 
Wuz ter pray ter der own conshens, an' be noble, kin' an' 
true. 

But dey tels me I's a sinnah an' debil'll git me sho' 
Ef I doan ax Massa Jesus fer a pahdon 'fo' I go; 
Den I see dem eyes er shinin' lak a diamon' in de sky, 
But my conshens come an' tells me dat hit haint de debil's 

eye. 
An' I sometimes git de outlines ob er fohm I 'pears ter 

know. 
In de darkness ob de eb'nin' jist er glidin' cross de flo', 
An' hit kinder makes me narvous an' I kinder lose my 

place, 
Foh I seem ter see de likeness ob my muddah's deah ol' 

face. 

Den de debblish religion an' de hellish fiah goes, 
An' de prayin' to de Massa jist comes sorter to er close, 
Foh I neber seed dat Jesus an I'd ruther tech de han' 
Ob my deah ol' sperit muddah dan de Lawd, ef he's er 



JULIUS CAESAR. 



Now, Julius Caesar is a cat — not like the common kind — 
Because it is so cleanly and so very good to mind; 
Always minds its own affairs and never runs at night. 
Nor climbs the garden fences with other cats to fight; 
Nor climbs upon the dinner table, never mews nor whines. 
Nor capers 'round the household in other monkey shines. 

It don't annoy the neighbors by calling out their cat 
To tell its love by moonlight, and naughty things like that; 
Nor yawls upon the kitchen roof and curves its bristly back, 
A target for the cuss-words, the brush and old boot-jack. 
It never joined a chorus, nor a trio nor duet, 
To serenade a darling all wooing fails to get. 

It never scratched the varnish all off the parlor door, 
Nor scratched the baby's fingers till every one was sore; 



90 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

It asks no one for favors, is quiet and so good; 
It wouldn't if it could be, it couldnt if it would 
Be otherwise than decent; 'tis neither he nor she; 
'Tis only Julius Caesar — a stuffed cat — do you see? 



Mankind is like the pussy: While living, night and day. 
Are always seeking something their appetites to stay; 
They never are contented, are always getting bluffed; 
It will never be prevented till all their hides are stuffed. 



FORTUNE AND FATE. 



Oh, why should Dame Fortune be partial to one 

And cruelly severe to another? 
Oh, why is the labor of Fate never done 

Oppressing the lucky man's brother? 

Men's motives and feelings may be just the same- 
Each struggling along the same road; 

One rises to fortune, distinction and fame, 
The other breaks down 'neath a load. 

One has but to reach out his hand for the gold 

That rolls in at every turn; 
The other must struggle to even get hold 

Of each shining piece he may earn. 

Each may be sober, industrious and bright, 

And each one be polished, withal. 
And yet old Dame Fortune and Fate, e'er in sight 

Lift one and the other let fall. 

If life were but measured by man's mortal span — 

The future depended on gold. 
Then Life would be partial in working and plan, 

And Justice left out in the cold. 



Since past religion's fleeting days 
Have carried hell from view. 

The sun seems throwing brighter rays 
Out from the ether blue. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 91 

A SCANDALMONGER AT THE GATE. 



A Vivid Picture of St. Peter's Interview and Disposal of 
This Gaunt and Uncomely Personage. 



An angular figure approached the great gate, 
While the business seemed to be dull. 

To enter, of course, and learn of its fate, 
While Peter was having a lull. 

The gate was ajar, but guarded the while, 
And the figure bowed down very low; 

St. Peter arose from his chair with a smile 
That was cold as the beautiful snow. 

He stiffly saluted; the figure arose 

With its eyes like unto red fire, 
And Peter divined the depth of the woes 

Of this gaunt ghost of a liar. 

"Sit down and be quiet," he said in a tone 

That only a judge can command. 
And then he concluded to place it alone 

In the silence somewhere in the land. 

The figure, a-quiver, sat down in a heap, 

And Peter called up a small page, 
A dapper young spirit, who put it to sleep 

And summoned an ancient-like sage. 

A council was held then in heaven to know 

The proper disposal to make 
Of this patron so feeble, who needed to grow, 

And all its earth-error forsake. 

Says Peter, "I know that this being just fell 
From mere force of habit on earth. 

From pointing its neighbors to heaven and hell. 
And giving to new libels birth. 

"That face is an index to all down within. 
The walk and the eye tell the tale; 

The nose and the mouth and the up-turning chin, 
That seldom, if ever, can fail." 



92 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Just then the gaunt figure came forth from its cell. 

With a grin on its angular face. 
Like a demon of venom just coming from hell 

To imperil the whole human race. 

"Now, Peter, you know that the earth folks are bad," 

It said, in a shrill, squeaky tone, 
"And in this great heaven you all should be glad 

To have folks's records well known. 

"My neighbors were horrid, immoral and false 

Until I got after them right; 
I tell you what, Peter, I made them all waltz. 

And some of them wanted to fight." 

Another broad grin of conceited delight, 
And the figure reached out for the latch, 

But Peter, divining its penchant for fight, 
Concluded to give it a match. 

He made a few passes above the gaunt form, 

And the head was that of a snake; 
He then placed it in temperature warm. 

Quite close to a fiery lake. 

He said, with a frown, that "the spirit's own sphere 
Is builded by thoughts and by deeds. 

And by the various environments here, 
Oft made by those musty old creeds. 

He stroked his long beard while watching with pride 

This being conceitedly wise. 
Who slandered and libelled upon the earth side, 

Now assuming its true form and size. 

"Each being," said Peter, "constructs its own sphere, 

From monad up unto man; 
And thus we receive it and treat it up here; 

'Tis Nature's immutable plan. 

"The angel of goodness, of wisdom and right 

Must merit advancement, and win 
By growth its own progress and all its own light. 
Ere Nature will let it pass in. 

"The chronic fault-finder, the liar and sneak; 
The grafter, the greedy old grouch 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 93 

Come hither quite often in white robes to seek 
A soft downy bed or a couch. 

"So pious and saintly sometimes they appear, 
In the guise of the good and the true, 

And plead for admission to heaven's high sphere; 
They only are given their due. 

"This angular being on earth was a snake, 

With tongue full of venom and ire, 
And Justice compels it that venom to take, 

And drink to its own soul's desire." 

St. Peter related a few potent things 

(He noted my newspaper eye), 
That people in earth-life should do to sprout wings. 

For a beautiful homeward fly. 

"Be kind to all creatures; be just and be true; 

Be generous unto the poor; 
Send out love vibrations, the world to imbue. 

And of heaven you may be quite sure." 

He said that the "creature that I had just seen 

Was one of the many on earth 
Who tattled and slandered and acted so mean 

It lost all its spiritual worth. 

"It is oft sad to see them appearing as saints. 

And sanctified preachers and priests, 
And bringing to heaven just all sorts of taints 

Of vermin and reptiles and beasts. 

"We now are constructing a dungeon for those 
Who to greed and deception are slaves. 

And who, as the loved ones passed over, oft pose, 
Obtaining the names from the graves. 

"Twas first thought to burn these vile creatures awhile 

And melt all their meanness away. 
But burning with sulphur has gone out of date. 

And hell for reform had its day. 

"A dungeon of silence and darkness in time 

Will all the right purposes serve. 
To cure these defamers of this blackest crime. 

And give just the hell they deserve." 



94 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

St. Peter, arising, then waved me adieu, 
And closed the big gate with a slam, 

And left me my journey alone to pursue. 
Reflecting upon this great sham. 

What. Peter had told me and what I there saw 

I pondered upon for a time, 
But found it was only the justice of law 

In spirit, in dealing with crime. 



If man in his nature is snake-like and low, 
Or brutal and cruel all through, 

He must in all reason, until he can grow, 
Remain to his tendencies true. 



THEY ARE MY ANGELS, ALL. 



How I love the pretty babies, love their crying and their 

coo, 
And they always look up at me as if saying, "I love you." 
Yes, I love them; they are precious ere they walk or ere 

they crawl. 
With their fisting and their kicking, and they are my 

angels, all. 

There are many who grow nervous when they hear a baby 

cry; 
They forget that they were babies in the happy days gone 

by. 
It unfolds the vocal organs, to occasionally squall; 
It is music to my spirit, and they are my angels, all. 

How I love to sit and watch them when they first begin to 

see. 
And to notice their surroundings, when they first look up 

at me. 
I can sense the little spirits ere they come at Nature's call. 
In the love-land of the fairies, and they are my angels, all. 



We look upon the universe with mortal clouded eye 
And wonder that it is no worse; we wonder how and why? 



DR. T. WILKTNS' POEMS. 95 

TURNED HIS MOTHER OUT. 



Yes, I clipped it from a paper and presume the story- 
true, 
And yet, it seems too terrible for any man to do; 
But a being, called a human, turned his mother out of 

home ; 
Turned the mother who had raised him, out into the 

world to roam. 
She who bore him, she who loved him, she who gave 

him of her own. 
Now must struggle through the journey of a dark life 

all alone. 
Shall we pity such a being, who is also growing old. 
If some day when he is helpless, he be turned out in 

the cold? 
Shall we sympathize when justice overtakes a cruel 

man ? 
Shall we sit down in deep sadness while Dame Nature 

works her plan? 
Or wake up and take some measure for preventing 

such an act, 
And begin some drastic action by corrective motives 

backed? 
How I pity such a villain, and I'd like to beat him 

through. 
So that I could let St. Peter know of him a thing or 

two. 
And I 'd like to be the Devil, or a stoker of the fire, 
So that I could do him justice as a broiler or a fryer. 
1 would teach him all the tortures of a spiritual hell. 
And then leave him with his conscience for a long, 

continued spell. 
I would cook away the demon that possessed him on 

the earth, 
When he turned out cold and hungry here the one 

who gave him birth. 
I would put him in a dungeon, or some dark and 

gloomy hole, 
Till the spark of manhood lighted ev'ry recess of his 

soul. 
I would hold him as in prison, from the pleasant light 

of day, 



96 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Till his callous little conscience burned its virus all 
away. 

I would hold him through the ages in the crucible of 
right, 

Till the darkness of his spirit was excluded by the 
light, 

Then I'd let his loving mother stand before him for 
awhile. 

And perfect his growing spirit with her bright, forgiv- 
ing smile. 



THi\NliFUL. 



I have clothes, a well-filled stomach and a pleasant place to 

sleep, 
And my thankfulness of spirit runs proportionately deep. 
There are people who are freezing, and are hungry to the 

core, 
Who for lack of work and shelter are now sleeping out of 

door. 
T\Tien I see the mansions gaudy, and provided with the best, 
I am thankful that "good fortune" has a brother being 

blessed. 
But I wonder that "good fortune" with so many things in 

store, 
Gives one plenty while another starves and freezes out of 

door. 
When I see the stately churches where the wealthy go to 

pray 
That the "meek and lowly Jesus might their sins all wash 

away," 
When the means might be expended for the good of mortals 

more, 
I feel sorry for the wealthy who must plead at heaven's door. 
I feel thankful there is justice in the somewhere and some- 
time. 
And the thought uplifts my spirit with a radiance sublime. 
For the Present seems so partial, with the good things in its 

store — 
All to few men, while their brothers freeze in hunger out of 

door. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 97 

ABOLISH THE SLIPPER. 



How well I remember my mother's old slipper, 

How loudly I "hollowed," and tried then to "skip" her. 

As she pulled down my pants for a spank; 
How blue was I feeling, tho' pale was my face, 
How hot was the spanking and red was the place; 

I then thought my mother a "crank." 

I love that old mother, but never forget 
That hostile old slipper, I feel it there yet. 

As plainly as when 'twas applied; 
How mother did handle that slipper on me. 
With my writhing young figure across her old knee, 

Just making me wish she had died. 

That mother's gone over, and I am a man, 
Have raised a few children, but not on that plan. 

Abolished the slipper entire; 
My mother was rigid and set in her ways. 
But that was the way they ruled in those days — 

And followed the God in his ire. 

I hold her no anger — each lick I forgive — 

'Twas taught in each sermon, all right thus to live — 

"To spare not the rod on the child," 
But that cruel old slipper, it haunts my view now, 
It left an impression, so fadeless, somehow, 

Its memory drives me most wild. 

I'd gladly dismiss it and think of the way 
They punish the children, the naughty, to-day, 

Would gladly forgive and forget. 
For the new way is better, with love to correct, 
With reason to govern and gain the respect. 

And never have aught to regret. 



There will surely come a time some day, 
Ere life's consciousness has fled. 

When the tables will return our way 
And earth will give up her dead; 

When souls will know the better way. 
When Truth and Justice will wed. 



98 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

AFRAID TO DIE? 



Afraid to die? Oh, no, not I. 

The crawling worm in law sublime 
Must lay his worthless body by 

And make a change to wings in time; 
'Tis Nature's way. I, too, will change 

This form and pass, as with a breath. 
To higher spheres. 'Tis not so strange. 

And when he comes I'll welcome Death. 

Chorus: — Do what you will around my grave. 
Or burn my form the dust to save; 
But, oh, weep not nor mourn me there; 
Nor give for me an empty prayer. 
But say that I fought for the high 
And the good, and feared not to die. 

Afraid to die? Afraid t9 die? 

The birds that sing from leafy bough, 
Or sail far up against the sky. 

Teach me to call this fleeting now 
A moment's or a second's time 

In this eternal whirl of things, 
And I will seek another clime 

When I can sail on spirit wings. 

Chorus: — Ah, me! I do not care to live 
Forever where I cannot give 
This soul its highest liberty 
To all I am and aim to be. 
I know that some day I must go: 

When that time comes — ah, be it so. 

Why should I dread to close my eyes 

In sleep and dream myself awake 
On fairer shore, where I can rise 

And from my very spirit shake 
The load that all past years held down 

The angel part, the spirit I, 
When I would rise and gain the crown 

Of right? Oh, this is not to die! 

Chorus: — It is to live, to rise and be 

Whate'er is waiting there for me; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 99 

To spread my soul beyond confine, 
And claim and own whate'er is mine. 
I would not die before my time, 
But Death to me is so sublime. 



KING DOLLAR. 



I'm a dollar, just a dollar, as your eyes can plainly 

see, 
Though in silver or in paper, man has shaped and 

fashioned me. 
A hundred cents is my true value, though I'm often 

squeezed below. 
And from bar and store and pulpit, into banks and 

out I go. 

Oft I'm pinched so hard my metal gives beneath the 

miser 's thumb ; 
Sometimes covered with tobacco, or exchanged for 

beer or rum. 
Sometimes stolen, sometimes taken to the courts for 

fees or fines; 
Always loved and always wanted, always used as 

man inclines. 

Oft I buy the souls of beings, purchase manhood, sor- 
row brings 

And am worshiped as divinely by the peasant as by 
king. 

I oft buy virtue, dethrone reason, hold religion in my 
hand; 

Have the power of upbuilding, and of ruining the 
land. 

I fix prices on all labor, cramp the consciences of men, 
Buy up justice, own and use it, and abuse it now and 

then. 
I am King o'er all the nations, and make all men fall 

in line ; 
Incite murder, war and famine ; I am It ! The World 

is Mine! 



100 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

ARE NOT ALL SOULS IMMORTAL? 



Will the doggies howl in heaven to disturb our perfect 

peace? 
Or will all their woes and wailings at the threshold 

calmly cease ? 
Are the animals immortal in this great eternal plan? 
Will they rise up from their bodies and move on with 

spirit man? 

Ah ! Do not the same strong forces tLat bring forth 

the human child, 
Bring to life also the kittens, just as pure and unde- 

filed? 
And within the puppy's body is there not a soul as 

true 
As Dame Nature ever offered to a human coming 

through ? 

Each has modes of understanding, though not all can 

speak in word, 
Whether fish down in the ocean, whether mvxn or beast 

or bird; 
Pulsing, waving, vibrant Nature that gives unto all 

things breath, 
Vibrates onward and beyond the station called by 

mankind death. 

All have birthrights and some purpose, and though 

man is crowned the king. 
He can only do his duty, and like other souls take 

wing. 
Deep down within all being lies the kindred spark of 

soul, 
Handed up through evolution from the great Eternal 

Whole. 

Man, in his great self-laudation, as the king upon the 

throne, 
Tries to claim the earth and soul-land as possessed 

by him alone. 
He forgets that all creations are results of laws 

divine, 
And that he is but an atom kneeling at a self-made 

shrine. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 101 

WHEN OUR MOTHER PASSES ON. 



When our mother lives among us and we see her all 

the while, 
We forget that she must leave us and take with her 

that sweet smile. 
We forget, while she is supple, and goes lightly to 

and fro, 
That she soon will get so feeble that she can but 

slowly go; 
We forget when she embraced us in our childhood 

days now gone. 
Till we see the dumb clods cover her, then wisdom 

seems to dawn, 
Then our heart-strings draw us closer, as we sense 

her closing day. 
And we weep in bitter sorrow when her spirit goes 

away. 

Titled lord and humble peasant on a level here 

must be 
To the mothers that produced them, in our world's 

humanity ; 
For a mother, poor and humble, loves as well her 

humble child, 
And as deeply as the mother who has gold around her 

piled. 
And as nature has decreed it that all things shall pass 

away. 
It is no event unlooked for that we all shall go some 

day. 
But the world seems dark and dreary and and the 

thoughts upon us dawn. 
That we love her and shall miss her when our mother 

passes on. 

It is then we feel the value of her counsel and her 

love, 
When her spirit has departed for its mansion up 

above. 
It is then we feel regretful, if a thing was left undone, 
For the comfort, ease or pleasure of our dear old 

ansrel one. 



102 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

It is then remorse goes gnawing through our bleeding 
consciousness, 

It is then an obscure future blights our hope of happi- 
ness, 

And the world looks gloomy to us when the thoughts 
upon us dawn 

That we love her and we miss her, when our mother 
passes on. 



LIFE AND LITTLE ]\L1N. 



Oh, Spotless Life! Above, below, around all things, 
From loathsome worm to beauteous bird that sweetly sings; 
From cactus plant along the line unto the rose; 
From earth to sky thy round of growth and labor goes. 

From monad unto mortal man dost thou arise 
And strive as though for some rare thing, immortal prize 
To gain, when thou art far above, beyond the whole; 
Beyond and over ev'ry living breathing soul. 

Oh. Perfect Life! The universal all in all; 

O'er ev'ry planet, star, moon, sun or little ball 

That flies through space in search of place to whirl and be 

A world within a world through all eternity. 

Eternal Life! How grand thou art, unselfish, true 
And full of strength and wisdom and of blessings, too, 
And yet, poor man, in his great growth of self-conceit, 
Imagines oft. that he is all of life complete. 

But at the grave where o'er his form so still and cold. 
The little stones and clods of clay are being rolled, 
In soul he sees and knows how small is mortal man 
In this great whirl of Life's eternal growing plan. 

Man sees when he has laid away his weary frame, 
That Life continues on beyond the earth the same. 
And all his worry lest the world should miss him not. 
Was there interred with those old bones and soon forgot. 

The world moves on and children rise to take his place. 
The breach is closed and soon the horde forgets his face. 
The flower blooms and sweetens Spring with fragrant scent 
And falls to earth and back to dust, its virtue spent. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 103 

The sun shines on and sheds no tears of sorrow there; 
The moon revolves and shines with brightness just as fair, 
The rains descend, the clouds pass on their busy way, 
And Life remains unchecked the same each passing day. 

Though man may own by purchase-right, large plots of land, 
There comes a time to pass along and lose command; 
There comes a time when all such gain is lost to view, 
When Life transports his little soul beyond the blue. 

Eternal Life! How grand thou art! unselfish, true, 
And full of strength and wisdom and of blessings, too, 
And yet, poor man, in his great growth of self-conceit. 
Imagines oft that he is all of Life complete. 



A FEW MORE YEARS. 



We have but a few more years to linger 
Aye, only a few more years at best, 

Ere the hand of old Time points a finger 
And his scythe reaps a harvest of rest. 

Ah, only a few more years of worry 
Will this soul have, imbedded in clay. 

But somehow I don 't wish to hurry 

From this dear old earth homestead away. 

There's only a few more years of blindness 
Ere the dawning of brightness I'll see, 

But this world seems so filled up with kindness 
That the waiting is pleasant to me. 

Only a few more years of the bitter, 
Only a few more years of the sweet ; 

Yet the bright stars of hope are a-glitter 
'er the pathway of these weary feet. 

Only a few more years of earth pleasure. 
Only a few more years of its pain. 

And each one must have a full measure, 
Or Life shall have been lived all in vain. 

Only a few more years of this being 

And doing without perfect aim, 
But the coming, the doing, the seeing 

Are worth all the trouble and blame. 



104 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

FOND MEMORIES. 



(The following poem was inspired by the picture of an eld- 
erly lady resting her arm upon the top of a bureau and her 
head upon her arm, pulling from a drawer little stockings, 
dresses, etc., a very sad and tender expression on her dear 
old face.) 

Nicely nested in this drawer lie some treasures to me dear; 
Precious jewels of a happy, unforgotten, bygone year. 
Little dresses, little stockings and a bonnet, all in place; 
Ah! how plainly and how sweetly with each comes a little 

face. 
As I touch these little treasures of my spirit I can see 
Those dear faces of my babies, as they all return to me. 
And I live the sweetest moments of my life so sadly o'er, 
For my mother heart is lonely since I have my babes no 

more. 

And this little golden ringlet calls again my baby boy, 
With his dimples and his cooing, and I sense the old-time 

Joy, 
But that awful wave of sorrow, when I pressed him to me, 

dead. 
Comes again in sobs of anguish, with this ringlet from his 

head ; 
Yet I linger near and fondle, and I ponder long and deep, 
And I oft lie down to slumber and just sob myself to sleep; 
Then my spirit flies to dreamland where I find my little 

dears. 
And my precious spirit babies kiss away the burning tears. 

How I love these little garments that my babies used to 

wear; 
How my mother soul unburdens when I touch this lock of 

hair. 
All the mem'ries seem so hidden by the veil of passing time 
Till I touch these little treasures, then I feel again sublime 
In the presence of my babies, once more floating on the 

stream 
Of a life as calm and placid as a mother's sweetest dream. 
And I love to press my babies to my bosom in my mind, 
While my lonely heart is sobbing and my eyes with tears are 

blind. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 105 

There is sweetness oft in sadness, and as oft relief in tears 
When a mother mourns each darling that in memory ap- 
pears, 
At the touching of the garments and the ringlets laid away 
There is pleasure 'neath her sorrow that cold words cannot 

portray, 
For she knows she is the mother of their spirits evermore. 
And shall meet them when she passes to their bright celes- 
tial shore; 
Thus her sadness and her pleasure that commingle and com- 
bine 
In the touching of these treasures, is a wave of the Divine. 



WHEN REUNION TIMES APPEAR. 



There's a love which none but mothers of this world 
can ever feel ; 

There are heartaches most depressing that the smiles 
cannot conceal, 

When the loved ones, now all scattered, that once 
filled her heart with cheer, 

Through some great or small misfortune, cannot an- 
nually appear. 

Though she knows they each must labor in the chan- 
nels of this life. 

And that each must be a unit in this world of pain and 
strife, 

There's a load that falls upon her when those feast- 
times linger near, 

And the absent ones are hindred, when reunion times 
appear. 

There's a sadness with the gladness of each dear re- 
union day, 

To a tender, loving mother, when a child is far away, 

When a place within the circle has been vacant for a 
year, 

And the loved one at reunion times must fail to re- 
appear. 

0, 1 hear a deep, sad sighing from a heart that would 
be glad. 



106 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

And I see a mother smiling from a soul that is so sad, 
And I also feel like crying when I see that glistening 

tear, 
At the family reunion where they all cannot appear. 



TO SWEETEN LIFE. 



Life can be a blessing sweet, 
Or curse, as you may make it; 

But no twelve months can be complete 
Without a rest — so take it. 

By taking one in social life 
Upon some dear camp-ground, 

In feasting soul and drowning strife 
In reason's flow profound. 

In swapping yarns with Smith and Jones, 

In living in a tent; 
In resting all your weary bones 

That are with labor bent. 

In mingling voice and soul with friends 

You may not meet again; 
In helping the cause that ever tends 

To unify all men. 



Since man has learned some laws of life. 

All religions are overawed. 
Old Death has lost his pruning knife — 

The way is clear, the road is broad. 

What will be the future of the man who takes the bread 
From the mouth of hungry people to feed the overfed? 
What will be the future of the man who takes the life 
Of the poor but honest toiler, of his babe and loving wife? 
What will be the future of the man of money-greed? 
Will he always have his plenty, or be brought to want and 
need? 

Has any soul within the whole lived always just to know 
And tell to man when he began, and where and how also? 




DR. T. WILKINS. 
(Photo taken 1908.) 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 107 

INVOCATION. 



Independent Entity, Selfhood, Soul, 
Element, Atom or Aggregated Whole, 
Personality of the mythical past. 
On whom all heavy burdens were cast: 
We come to Thee in hopes to be 
Of use in strength and sympathy — 
In hopes to save some brother's fall. 
And Thee to save from bearing all. 

If we are parts in life with Thee, 
And Thou art injured, how can we 
From sharing be entirely free? 
How can we expect to be 
Unharmed and harm another, 
When each in life to each is brother? 

Thou hast oft been "pleased to take" 
From earth a son, and gladly break 
A mother's heart who gave him birth; 
Break the joys of family hearth; 
Bring floods to wash away all wealth; 
Disease to injure people's health; 
And oft to sinners partial be. 
Or slay with like impunity 
Thy "chosen ones" who chanced to get 
In cyclone's path; and yet — and yet 
Their voices blend in shouts of praise. 
Through stormy nights and droughty days. 
In hopes to catch the slightest favor 
Of Thee, their God, or blessed Savior, 

Immovable controlling Power, 
Unascendable knowledge Tower, 
Unapproachable, impenetrable Light; 
Overpowering, irresistible Might; 
Light, Air, Water and Heat; 
Space, Material, All Complete, 
Whatever name Thou wilt bear — 
Toward Whom is "fired" every prayer — 
Who runs the world Thyself to suit; 
Who made a Satan with his "fruit," 



108 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

To tempt Thine "image," mortal man, 

And thwart Thine own quite "perfect plan — ' 

We know Thy law, immutable. 

Therefore we pray just suitable: 

We pray for that which we, no doubt. 

Can get by work, and not without; 

Then, if by work and not by prayer 

Each one can get his proper share, 

Prayer's a failure — fails to work — 

Prayer would starve the men who shirk, 

No life is known without its law: 

Imperfect, or without a flaw 

The sun revolves and lights each day 

The earth, despite a "Joshua;" 

The moon shines on with silvery hue; 

The earth is spread with frost and dew; 

Each planet moves in space its own; 

The clouds sail on from zone to zone; 

All things that are to-day will be 

Somewhere, somehow eternally, 

Hence, man to-day, the most distressed, 

Tomorrow may be greatest blest, 

And some day have his dues expressed. 

No prayer, nor thanks, nor flattery 
Will change what is or is to be; 
Therefore, oh. Right, we here implore 
Our own just dues, and nothing more. 



A man may steal and kill by law to-day, 

And go scot free to-morrow; 
But on the whole, sometime he'll get his pay 

In suff'ring and in sorrow. 



The braying ass and shouting man 
Will make a perfect matching span 

But working makes them tired, 
And better far, if hitched behind. 
To back and pull: Such teams we find 

Are easiest to get mired. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



109 



ANNIVERSARY POEM. 



In Eighteen-Hundred and Forty-Eight — 
The evening was quiet, but !:ot very late — 
Up out of the darkness and ignorance came 
A truth of the future that kindled a flame. 

Rap! Rap! Rap! Rap! 
came a sound on the 
wall 

That caused supersti- 
tion to crumble and 
fall; 

It knew how to count; 
it knew how to spell; 

It knew the true mean- 
ing of heaven and 
hell. 

It wasn't so much for 
children to do, 

But started the people 
MARGARETTA FOX KANE. to thinking anew; 
And old-time religion beginning to fall. 
Lifted her mantle and loosened her thrall. 




The odor of brimstone that once filled the air 
Was changed to a fragrance far sweeter, more rare; 
The great gulf of darkness between the two spheres 
Just melted to nothing and ended our fears. 

The bell that once sounded the signal of doom. 
And filled human spirits with heaviest gloom. 
Sends music to soul-land announcing a birth — 
A beauteous transition; ascending from earth. 



The graves that once covered our kindred from view. 
Have opened and loved ones are peeping back through, 
And hearts bowed in sorrow around the cold bier 
Are cheered with the knowledge the dead are still near. 



no 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



The pictures from pulpits are brighter by far — 
With angels awaiting and gates wide ajar; 
All heaven is beaming with gladness and cheer, 
And few now of Satan have any great fear. 

That great lake of brimstone, the deriions of hell, 
Have gone from religion; just leaving the smell; 
All infant-damnation — the curse of mankind — 
Has passed to an ending away from the mind. 

Dependence on Sav- 
iors is laid on the 
shelf. 
And each living spir- 
it depends on it- 
self. 

The God of one be- 
ing is God over 
all. 

And nothing can ev- 
er from that God- 
head fall. 

In fact, since those 
children have 
opened the door, 
And given earth ac- 
cess to that other 
LEAH FOX UNDERHILL. shore, 

A great evolution has swept o'er this sphere. 
That has anchored forever the two worlds a-near. 

No time nor no power can stay this great move; 
Its light of the spirit the future must prove, 
And all human beings some day will uphold 
The Cause that those babies once helped to unfold. 
******** * 

'Tis now a truth in science, and in that we place reliance 
For solution of the problems of the earth; 

We search the briny deep, and the starry heavens sweep. 
To catch each tiny planet at its birth. 

We span the earth with steel and we place it all on wheel ; 

From the clouds we take our brightest lighting power; 
We send our thoughts by wire, and never, never tire 

Of improving and advancing every hour. 




DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



Ill 



We found a life immortal; we found the shining portal, 
And the doorway to the great eternal land. 

Our science has discovered that spirits always hovered, 
Though unseen, around the earth on every hand. 

Our science has come blessing a life that was distressing, 
With a never-ceasing fear — the wrath of God — 

A fear that we'd be jammed into hades and be damned; 
Our science gives the fear a killing prod. 

It tells us God is spirit, and the people need not fear it, 
As all things are parts in person of the whole; 

It robs us of the stinging that death was always bringing. 
And gives eternal progress to the soul. 



It gives the sobbing 
mother the hope that 
not another 

Religion ever gave a 
mourning one 

It says: instead of burn- 
ing — that her child 
will be returning — 

Instead of gloom and 
sorrow — light and 
sun. 

^'jnt It fills the clouds above 
^'' I us with the ones who 
used to love us, 
'TAf/>e/r'/ *"4^'^-S'A'"^' ' ^^^ ^^"^^ passed beyond 

^^ . „^ ^^Jf'^lt ' the prison-house of 

KATIE FOX JENCKEN. ^lay; 

'Tis science that imbues us with a spirit that will use us 
To bring upon the earth a brighter day. 

Then let us hail the power that will make the monarch 
cower 

And cause the earth to tremble — pole to pole; 
Oh, let us sound the praises to the Spirit-world for phases 

For returning to the earth the living soul. 

Oh, let us band together, beyond the limit-tether 
That so closely links the two great worlds in one; 




112 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Let us ever mind the tapping of tlie spirits that come rap- 
ping 
To tell us a new era has begun. 

'Tis an era of devotion, and will set the world in motion, 
And will shatter false religions of the earth; 

All hail, those little martyrs — those reformation starters, 
Who have given our philosophy its birth. 

They have brought to science clear new wisdom from the 
sphere 

Where wisdom is eternally unrolled; 
Oh, let us mingle cheers for those plucky pioneers, 

Who first started our religion to unfold. 

Let us pull and push together through mild and stormy 
weather. 

To make our lives most useful, good and true; 
Let us all united stand, ever working hand in hand 

In love the world will e'er be pleased to view. 

Let us wait not till to-morrow to wipe away a sorrow, 

But now be up and doing what we can 
To lighten others' trouble — e'en tho' our troubles double; 

To lift the load from off our fellow-man. 

Be brothers and be sisters, a family good and grand; 
Be noble men and women to bless this glorious land. 
Let us grow from selfhood, out of sordid clay's confine; 
Bloom out in Nature's garden a flower more divine. 

Oh, let us make some mother or some father brightly 

smile, 
Whose grief seems loth to smother, or to lessen for 

awhile. 
Have we anything reforming in the ideas that we give. 
We first should learn to heed them in the life we claim 

to live. 

Does our new religion teach us of a bright immortal 

sphere. 
And then leave as unimportant just how to live down 

here? 
Our science now informs us that all are of one great whole 
And a motive or an action that is wrong postpones the 

soul; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 113 

That law intended each to grow, expand, unfold and 
bloom, 

Infused a life within each germ and gave expanding-room. 
Though one by one the veterans pass beyond the mystic 

wall — 
Teachers, workers, leave the earth — the cause can never 

fall. 

Those grand old men, and women, too, those hardy pio- 
neers, 

Who worked so long with us on earth, still aid us with 
their cheers; 

Their forms are gone back to the clay; we miss them at 
our side; 

But as their silent voices cheer, we know they have not 
died. 

We know the Cause they so much loved is right, and they 

are still 
Our leaders in the battle there, and fighting with a will. 
Most glorious Cause! All hail to thee, upon this natal day! 

All hail to each old veteran now triumphant o'er the clay! 

************* 

Well, this is the story and truth, very brief, 
How three little girlies gave spirit relief. 
To a race groping blindly along a dark way. 
And gave to man's reason the light of new day. 
It gave to religion its own solid base; 
It gave unto science a lift to its place; 
It gave to all living creatures a right 
To existence eternal — to spirit new light. 



MOTHER NATURE. 



We see thee, Mother Nature, in the rippling of the brook; 
We see thee in the woodland as in an open book. 
We hear thy gentle footsteps in the rustling of the leaves, 
And we hear thee sweetly warble in a voice that ne'er 
deceives. 

Thy loved embrace enkindles wherever we may roam, 



114 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Pure thoughts of thee, the matron of the universe — our 

home. 
Nor sun, nor cloud, nor rainbow, inside of thy domain, 
Can cease to be according to thy laws that ever reign. 
Thy breath, the gentle zephyr, that fans the parching ray. 
Is love itself, enraptured by the touch of summer day. 
The green field and the meadow, the lowing cow and ox; 
The lowland and the mountain, the sand and rugged 

rocks. 

The billows and the seashore, the ships that plunge and 

toss; 
The hurricane and thunder, the sea-weed and the moss, 
All voice thy name in praises in the silence of their souls, 
And chant harmonic music that down the ages rolls. 



UNCLE JOSH DISCUSSES HELL. 



Sheol is what they call it now, it used ter be jist hell — 
Then hades — sounded milder, and ruther cooled the spell. 
I used ter stan' an' shudder at the preacher's ravin' talk. 
Of the straight an' narrow pathways ter heav'n we had ter 

walk. 
An' ter make the Master hear him, how he would shout 

an' yell 
Fer mercy fer the sinner that God had doomed ter hell. 

How glad I am ter have 'm cool down that brimstone hole; 
It kinder loses terror when they mention it as sheol. 
The "livid, seethin' caldron" they used ter rave about. 
Got dampened in revisin', and' the fire's 'bout gone out. 
The old-time mad religion that resorted to sich stuff 
Ter frighten folks ter heaven, has lingered long enough. 

The churches that have flourished in extravagance an' 

show, 
Then upon the toiler's money, at last have got ter go. 
If hell there was ter torture the sinners in the past. 
Why shouldn't it continner as long as the sinners last? 
Why should there be no burnin', no hell with mighty roar, 
No wicked writhin, turnin' now, jist as they wuz afore? 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 115 

Why should this All-Wise demon — this Master over all, — 

Put out His quenchless fire, or let his scepter fall? 

Fer me it figures awful easy — the why an' which; 

It's all a base delusion, concocted for the rich. 

If the Bible inspiration is reliable and true. 

No rich man can get ter heaven — no Christ can pull him 
through. 

O what a rank deception! O what a cunnin' scheme; 

Fer ter alter that old fable, an' stop this awful dream! 

Ter take away the terror of hell's terrific glare, 

An' let the rich hev freedom ter climb the golden stair. 

The old damnation ideer, the kid uv ignorance, 

Wuz good enough fer poor folks, but give the rich no 
chance. 

It would exclude the fashions, an' costly temples too; 

Subdue the lustful passions of the saintly, godly few; 

It would prevent extortion, deception an' intrigue. 

An' give each one jist his portion that'd jined the right- 
eous league. 

But the rich need make no divvy fer the church ter now 
endure 

Their grand presence at the altar, with the righteous, 
godly poor. 

Hence, the whole foundation an' structure has been 
changed; 

The rich have their salvation now with God arranged; 

The tables are inverted; the rich have barred the door; 

An' Jesus has deserted the sin-sick, prayin' poor; 

There is no place of torture eternal now fer sin, 

An' the man that steals a fortune is anointed an' let in. 

The sermons of the future will never be unrolled. 
Unless they show up heaven all paved with shinin' gold; 
Unless they give the wealthy aristocratic lords 
The front pews up in heaven among the chosen hordes; 
Unless the belles of fashion, and the dudes of style also. 
Who hold the highest station in society can go. 

The old motto of the bosses, ter "gain an' cut er swell," 
Quite regardless of the sequence of a heaven or a hell. 
Will somewhat injure churches that keep their hells so 

grim, 
Ter fill their pews an' coffers they must keep within the 

"swim." 



116 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Now sheol will do the wicked, if it ain't too awful cool. 
So the ones have said who made it, within the righteous 

pool. 
They have purchased God an' Satan, cornered heaven 

as well; 
They have bridled every nation, and monopolized the hell. 



THANKFULNESS. 



When I search my whole possessions for the things I'm 

thankful for 
And the things that I have gathered to my soul that I 

abhor, 
Still my thankfulness o'erbalances all feelings of regret, 
And I know of many woes I missed that other friends 

did get. 

I am thankful I'm a human, not a turkey, sleek and fat, 
To be killed and baked and eaten; yes I'm thankful, God, 

for that; 
I am thankful I have clothing, and a room, and food to 

eat. 
And am not obliged to ramble and to beg upon the street. 

I am thankful for the kindness that the world has shown 

to me; 
I am thankful that the microbes and the doctors let me be; 
I am thankful that the bandits and collectors pass me by; 
I am thankful I am living, and am in no haste to die. 



A FRIEND. 



The greatest thing the world has known 
Aside from mortal breath, 

The greatest king upon a throne. 
The truest friend is Death. 

The sobs and sighs of human woe 
His soothing hand doth still; 

He comes with life's eternal flow 
And turns the changing mill. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 117 

The pains and pangs of mortal man 

Are all allayed the same; 
The ox and worm are in his plan 

And all should praise his name. 

He strokes the peasant and the king 

Alike with loving hand; 
He is no tyrant; has no sting; 

Just freedom sweet and grand. 



THE OLD MAN DREAMS. 



I wonder if my spirit, since my locks have grown so grey, 
Is now growing more impatient with the waiting day by 

day! 
And I wonder if the worry and monotony of toil 
Is inclining me to curdle and my kindliness to spoil! 

I call back those pleasant faces of my happy boyhood days, 
When the whole world seemed to echo with the shouts of 

boyish plays; 
When the very sun seemed shining to complete the round 

of joy. 
And those days return to haunt me — days when I was but 

a boy. 

I still climb those dear old hillsides, and go swimming in 

the brook; 
I still play in that old meadow and the same secluded 

nook; 
I still "whistle up" my comrades, for a swim or game of 

ball; 
But somehow I get responses only in a death-like pall. 

I still hear the distant rumble of the mill-wheel going 

round, 
As again I tread the furrow in the plowing of the ground; 
I can hear the cow-bells tinkle out upon the grassy hill, 
And I seem to catch faint glimpses of sweet faces round 

me still. 

I oft hear again the murmur of the voices in the school, 
And I see myself still sitting by the teacher, on a stool; 



118 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

I can hear the children reading and the "spelling down" 

as then, 
And the visions close my eyelids, and I AM A CHILD 

AGAIN. 

I am with my dear old mother, and can see the gentle 

care 
Now, with which she mends my trousers and prepares my 

curly hair; 
I can feel her gentle touches and can sense her mother 

pride, 
And somehow I feel her presence in the spirit at my side. 

Is this seeming but a dreaming, or a part of one whole 

life, 
When the pleasures of our treasures overshadow all the 

strife? 
Is it but an empty vision or a meaningless array. 
Or a mental panorama of the long-passed yesterday? 

Am I dreaming, or just living over all the bygone years? 
Oh, the pleasure in re-living, when the present disappears, 
All the happy days of childhood in the golden long ago. 
Makes my spirit lighter, better, while it lingers here be- 
low. 

I know not the hidden future, but the past returns to me. 
And the present all too plainly and too sternly I can see. 
And I somehow feel down in me that the loved ones gone 

before. 
Are still living and still loving, on some brighter, fairer 

shore. 

And at night when gentle zephyrs fan my eyelids down to 

sleep. 
All around me in the silence of the mighty spirit deep. 
Loving faces, bright and smiling, float like sunbeams 

through the air. 
Then I seem to be uplifted, as if floating with them there. 



Deserve success and you can command it; 

If undeserving you need not expect. 
Be truthful and earnest and you can demand it; 

But nothing is merited by neglect. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 119 

EF I WUZ GOD 'N GOD WUZ ME! 



Ef I WUZ God 'n God wuz me, 
I'd hang my harp upon a tree 
An' quit the throne this very day 
Er I would make the rich man pay 
Employes what they earn each day, 
An' help 'em keep the wolf away, 
Ef I WUZ God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I WUZ God 'n God wuz me, 

There's lots o' things that wouldn't be; 

There wouldn't be a man to lie, 

Ner would there be a heavy sigh; 

I'd have on earth no low ner high; 

No tear of sadness in an eye, 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me, 
I'd set the slaves uv earth all free; 
I'd have no boss to give command, 
Er trust within this growin' land 
To bind an' hold the toilers' hand. 
An' all their strength an' time demand, 
Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me, 

I'd spread my hands o'er land an' sea. 

An' quell the wars that now are rife; 

I'd dull the tyrant's bloody knife, 

An' stop this heartless, soulless strife 

Of giant devils in this life, 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me, 

I'd have another son an' see 

Ef I could save the world I made; 

I'd see ef every renegade 

Could have his word an' law obeyed 

Jist 'cause he bowed his head 'n prayed. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me, 
I'd make the sneakin' clergy flee 



120 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

From every house where love abides; 
From every church where fraud presides; 
From every place where Satan hides 
'Till he has cleaned hisself — all sides, 
Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me, 

I'd make all nations bend the knee 

In peace an' love, an' all jine hand, 

United in a holy band 

Of fellership, an' hold the land 

Fer homes, an' sneer at wealth's demand, 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 

Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me, 
I'd make my children all agree; 
Give all rewards for all good deeds. 
An' make 'em plant the best of seeds 
An' cut an' kill the worthless weeds, 
Includin' all religious creeds, 
Ef I wuz God 'n God wuz me. 



WHEN I EMBARK! 



When I embark for Spirit-land, 

When I shake off this dust 
Will loving friends come near it and 

Look down with deep disgust, 
To think so kind a soul e'er stayed 

So long within that clay, 
And from eternal bliss delayed 

For e'en a single day? 

Or will they sit and dream all o'er 

The rhymes that came from me; 
Then read again and smile once more 

Because my soul is free? 
On earth no man can live alway; 

Within this narrow place 
The spirit forms and hies away. 

But deeds will leave a trace. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 121 

And if I cause a tear or smile 

Of joy while I abide 
Upon this plane, I thus will pile 

Up treasures high and wide 
That long will linger in my wake, 

And with the tread of time 
I know there will be souls to make 

Arise with every rhyme. 

The hand that writes must sometime die, 

But age ofttimes renews 
The bloom that in our spirits lie, 

And freedom fresh imbues 
Our souls with inspiration's light; 

Ah, then, when I am free 
I know my friends will take delight 

In reading lines from me. 
My soul will reach and gather rhymes 

Beyond this cloudy sphere; 
Will grasp the golden thoughts of climes 

Above and yet a-near; 
Will touch the fount of soul and fill 

Where muses drink and bask. 
And bring to earth a rippling rill 

Of rhyme — my loving task. 



HAVE I LIVED BEFORE? 



Have I not lived on earth before? 

I cannot say I know, 
But sometimes seem to travel o'er 

A scene of long ago. 

I know in spirit I live on 

In perfect consciousness. 
For those dear friends who now have gone 

Return and so express. 

They also tell me that they show 

Bright visions of the scenes 
That are to come, that I may know 

The future — what it means. 



122 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

If this be true, then why might they 

Not hypnotize my mind 
To view the scenes along the way 

That they have left behind? 

Why might they not by strength of will, 

Or even presence, leave 
Their thoughts with me — my mind so fill 

With theirs as to deceive? 

This psychic force, unconscioi^^ly, 
Oft makes the psychic feel 

As others feel, see as they see. 
Sense all their woe and weal. 

Then as I walk, and as I ride 

'Mid scenes quite strange to me, 

I can be made by spirit guide 
His own loved scenes to see. 

I do not know the reason, I 

To evolute, must come 
Again to earth, be born and die. 

And still remain as dumb. 

If I must pass through every phase 

Of human life before 
I go to higher spheres, my days 

On earth are evermore. 

As new forms come, new phases, too. 

Are cast for me to ape; 
'Tis all the spirit has to do: 

Be born in every shape. 

Why not go on from earth to star, 

From star to star also, 
Now throwing off, now rising far 

Above, each time we go? 

I have been shown beyond the tomb 
Loved faces; this I know; 

But back through Nature's holy womb 
No consciousness can flow. 

That I have lived I seem to feel; 

That I live now I know, 
But what the future shall reveal 

My spirit does not show. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 1^3 

THE CRIMINAL — DOOMED! 



Oh, peace to my soul! — but why should I hope 

For aught to my soul, 
But scaffold and cap — the end of a rope — 

The drop — a dark hole? 

Doomed! — and what then? Will death put an end 

To this haunting guilt? 
Is death but a sleep whose dreams interblend 

With blood I have spilt? 

Or does the dumb clod eternally hide 

The past — dead to man? 
Does earth take its earth, when mortal has died, 

More beings to plan? 

Be still, oh my soul! — Aye, why should I hope 

For peace here below? 
A few fleeting hours — the cap and the rope — 

The priest — prayer — I go. 

These walls have great eyes that speak of my doom- 
In silence they speak — 

Like ghosts that arise from the cold, dismal tomb, 
Their vengeance to wreak! 

I know I have killed — have murdered — have slain! 

Those bodies had souls — 
I see them — they haunt me from these walls — a stain- 

And now the bell tolls! 

No hope in this life — no hope out beyond. 

Till all debts are paid! 
No Christ can atone — no judge loose the bond — 

My crimes are all weighed! 

Farewell to my friends, my home and my all — 

This death-shadow! See! ! 
This chill o'er my soul! that horrible fall! 

Is a hell unto me! 

But enough, oh, soul! deeds once done are done. 

And now the penalty — 
Inevitable — a shock — I am gone 

Into eternity. 



124 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

UNCLE EPH'S PHILOSOPHY. 



Oh, I wants ter be wid Jesus as he sits upon the throne; 
Yes, I wants ter be wid Jesus — wants ter be wid Him 

erlone, 
I's got sumpin' deep ter ax him on a subject dat am high, 
On de subject ob religion, ob de which an' ob de why. 

No; I want no one ter heah me; its fer me an' him erlone; 
Its fer him becase he's master ob de records at de throne, 
An' fur me bekase I's anxious fer ter see how others' stan' 
So dat I kin tell Saint Petah, an' his holy, saintly ban'. 

So dat I kin ketch dem fellahs dat hab blinded people's 
eyes 

Wid dat split-foot-debbil racket, an' dem burnin' brim- 
stone lies. 

Oh, won't it be a picnic fer ter git right in de fold. 

An' pick out dem ar ol' deacons who hab hoarded up de 
gold? 

Oh, won't it be a hot time fer all selfishness an' greed? 
Fer de ones dat played de spidah in de weavin' ob de 

creed? 
An' won't de angels holler, an' won't dey sing an' shout 
When I Stan's dar by de record jest a pintin' ob 'em out. 

An' I'll bet dar'll be de Baptis' an' de Mefodis' as well. 
An' de Presbyte'an deacon, wid dere skringin' fear ob 

hell, 
An' de priest wid his long robe on, an' his look so awful 

wise, 
Fer ter face dere many victims wid de weak an' blinded 

eyes. 

An' de faker folks dat's foolin' wid de sperits dat dey 

make, 
Sich a lot ob easy victims, fer de mighty dollah's sake. 
Will be spotted by Saint Petah as dey wander to de gate, 
Wid de Pinters dat I gib him, an' be tol' dey am too late. 

An* dem piousest ol' misers, who hab had so long er sinch 
On de treasure ob de churches, an' de po' men dey could 
pinch, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 125 

When dey meet de lowly Jesus wid der nickel smiles an' 

prayer, 
Dey'll be pinted to de quarters whar dere's hotness in de 

air. 



Bar's a purpose in religion, ef it only am de true. 
But hit must be fer de people an' not jes' fer a few, 
It must be full ob justice to de people as a whole, 
Er it haint no good ter lib by, ner no good fer any soul. 



SAD, YET BEAUTIFUL. 



"One day an old man stopped to talk with some chil- 
dren at Fulton and Morgan streets, in Chicago. After 
watching their play awhile he turned away and mur- 
mured: 'God bless the children.' Then he took off his 
coat, and, using it for a pillow, lay down on the curb in 
front of No. 2 42 Fulton street. Mrs Mary Findley, No. 
1815 State street, who was visiting the place, says the 
old man smiled and waved his hands to the children as 
he lay down. A few minutes later a policeman found 
him dead. The body was taken to the county morgue. 
The man was apparently 60 years old, and appeared to 
have been a laborer." — Inter-Ocean. 

Hopes all blasted; so all life's dream; 
Afloat, stranded, braving the stream, 
His home the earth, the air, the sky; 
Seeking a rest, he paused to die. 
No pillow for his tired head; 
The curbstone his last earthly bed. 
No kind and loving soul of earth 
To wish him a beautiful birth. 

He watched the children there at play, 
And thought of the past, far away 
When he, barefooted, sunburnt, ran 
And played with a chattering clan; 
Thought of a day when all went well; 
Of his youth and ambition's swell; 



126 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

All looked bright and passing fair; 

The dream had changed to life's nightmare. 

A toiler, tired, old and ill. 

Always slave to another's will; 

Calmly he laid him down to rest 

In rags, surrounded by the best. 

He loved the children, blessed them all, 

Then answered the angel's call; 

In peace he laid him down and died. 

Oh, may his soul in peace abide! 

Poor soul! dear soul, free from the clay! 
Naught didst thou bring, naught take away. 
Ah, who can do more? As each came 
Each must go and leave but a name. 
Thou art far richer than while here; 
The rich may find the lowest sphere — 
May expiate their earthly crimes 
In self-made hells in spirit climes. 

Farewell! a loved farewell! may be 
Thy peace the rich may envy thee. 
They cannot rob thee of thy rest 
As once they took thy gold. 'Twere best 
That Death relieved thy weary feet, 
And left thee sleeping in the street. 
Beneath the broad and friendly sky; 
How sweet on Nature's breast to die. 

Oh, blessed sleep! all praise be thine 
For wafting souls across the line! 



WHY SHOULD I MURMUR? 



Why should I murmur and murmur and growl, 

And rail at the rulings of Fate? 
Why should I wrinkle my brow with a scowl 

At work I must do that I hate? 

Who will e'en pity or who sympathize 
When troubles each has of his own; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 12 7 

When each his own load in life magnifies, 
And hears but his own constant groan? 

No one can see far beyond his own fate; 

His own lot is hardest of all; 
He rises too early and labors too late; 

Is always just able to crawl. 

If fortune comes easy — all things come his way — 

He murmurs for fear he will lose; 
He murmurs for fear that in no distant day, 

Another his fortune will use. 

He murmurs for sunlight, when cloudy and dark; 

He murmurs for rain when it's dry; 
He murmurs for comfort — he murmurs — but hark! 

He murmurs to live and to die. 

Why should I murmur? My duty I know; 

My lot is the same unto me; 
The grass and the trees must struggle to grow, 

And struggle unmurmuringly. 

Why should I murmur? The world moves along; 

The wheels are revolving as free; 
Birds sing as sweetly as ever they sang; 

None will e'en harken to me. 

I do get so weary sometimes when I hear 

My murmur, and wake to the sound; 
My spirit grows weary of hearing no cheer. 

And fain would arise from the ground. 



MY MOTHER'S SPIRIT HOME — A VISION. 



As I sit in deep dream I catch a faint gleam 

Of the light of a beautiful day, 
And I see the bright face of my mother, and trace 

Her dear tired feet o'er the way. 

I follow her tread through the land of the dead 
To the bright land of spirits on high; 

I can scarcely keep pace with her feet in this place, 
Though hopefully ever I try. 



128 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

As I know not the laws, my mother must pause 
To help my weak spirit ascend; 

But a look from her eyes and I quickly arise, 
Such force can her spirit extend.. 

We pass through great halls and out over walls. 
And over green meadow and vale, 

All rich with perfume of flowers in bloom, 
Together in spirit we sail. 

To her I oft turn with the voice of a yearn, 
And I ask for a view of the dead, 

Whom I had been told were at the threshold 
Awaiting the sound of my tread. 



Just then, as by chance, I happened to glance 
Toward a light that seemed moving about, 

When forth from the air all blooming and fair, 
Came all my spirit kindred with a shout 

So quickly they came, all shouting my name, 

I clung to my mother in fear, 
Till she called out the roll of each kindred soul, 

Who drew most lovingly near. 

And, oh, how sublime that soul-greeting time, 
'Twas richer than cold words can tell. 
There under the dome of mother's soul home, 
Where all of my soul-kindred dwell. 



Then under her care we all enter there. 

And oh, for right words to portray 
The beauty and grace of that holy place 

Where mother's dear spirit holds sway. 

There hang on the wall bright pictures of all 

E'en those who paused not in their birth. 
Are grouped with the few now journeying through 
The highways and byways of earth. 

Birds and sweet flowers and heavenly bowers. 

And music's sweet echoing sound 
Are parts of the home, that beautiful home. 

Where mother as Queen has been crowned. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 129 

Oh, beautiful home! Oh, heavenly home! 
Sweet home where my mother is Queen. 
In soul-land above, adorned with her love, 
With not e'en a veil in between. 



THE GOOD OLD WAY. 



I would rather eat my luncheon in the office 'mongst the 
flies 

Than to dine on cake and honey 'mid the styles I so de- 
spise, 

Than to eat the finest turkey where they watch me all 
the while. 

Just to see if I am eating in the very latest style. 

Is just simply a great nuisance till the knack is under- 
stood 

Oh, I like the way we used to do when our parents were 
on earth. 

And we used to all assemble there around that welcome 
hearth. 

My mother cooked the turkey, then, and she seasoned 
things just right. 

For she knew within that circle there was born an appe- 
tite. 

Well, we didn't use our fingers for delivery alone. 

Except in case of "drum sticks" or a clean protruding 
bone. 

Fact is, one can't get the meat so well without a little 

strife, 
When he must dissect his turkey with the av'rage fork 

and knife. 
I would rather eat my luncheon in the office 'mongst the 

flies 
Than to dine on finest turkey 'mid the styles I so despise. 

There's nothing seems to taste so good with people watch- 
ing you. 

And you feel so mighty awkward that you don't know 
how to do. 



130 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Yes, it spoils the nicest dinner, just to tremble all the 

while. 
Lest you might do something awful, all askew and out of 

style. 

Oh, give me back those days again, with mother's dear old 

face, 
And my father's smiling visage, each within the same old 

place; 
And the turkey and potatoes, and the jam and pumpkin 

pies. 
Or just let me eat my luncheon in the olRce 'mongst the 

flies. 

No, I cannot relish turkey with my feelings all askew 
O'er the thoughts that something awful I am liable to do. 
But I'll show you how to eat it if you'll leave that part to 

me, 
And I'll thank the one who cooked it, if from form and 

style set free. 



MY HOME. 



How little thought I in the days gone by. 

How dear to my heart would be home; 

Each day was the same: a home but in name. 
Till after I started to roam. 

I loved the dear spring, the beauty 'twould bring. 
The fragrance and songs that were sweet, 

But dearer by far the same things now are. 
While passing in dream-land retreat. 

I bloomed with their bloom, am doomed with their doom, 

And others will bloom evermore; 
But never since birth has old Mother Earth 

Seemed dearer or fairer before. 

The dawning of peace gives constant increase 

Of sweetness to me of this life. 
As twilight creeps o'er this shadowy shore. 

And soothes me to sleep from my strife. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 131 

I dream as I pause, and dream that the cause 

Of being is calling me home. 
And earth is more dear because it is here 

I change from this wearisome roam. 

Oh, home of my clay, I linger to-day; 

To-morrow return to thy door; 
A pillow of rest thy motherly breast 

Shall be to my form evermore. 



ALONE WITH SOUL. 



I stood in the forest at midday in silence, and heard a 
deep voice 

That awoke me from my dreaming, to look around and 
rejoice. 

The angels of Nature were singing and cooing, and war- 
bling their love; 

The zephyrs were sighing and wooing the sunbeams there 
up above. 

The May-apples bowed me their pleasure, and the wood- 
bine smiled at me; 

The ivy just shook with convulsions as it clung to the old 
elm tree; 

The leaves in their myriad numbers, like fairies above in 
the air. 

Just fluttered and quivered their welcome, and breathed 
down upon me a prayer. 

The earth and the shade were inviting, the silence en- 

chantingly sweet; 
I stood in deep awe at the grandeur of Nature, with 

charms so replete, 
Entranced with a sense of a oneness with all of Divinity's 

own, 
Entranced with the pulsing of Nature, with SOUL in the 

forest alone. 

My soul in sublimity holding sweet converse with souls 
of the wood, 



132 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Went out on his pinions immortal, while in the calm 

forest I stood, 
And I breathed unto all things a prayer with love and 

with pleasure o'erflown, 
While the brooklet just rippled its "Amen," with SOUL 
in the forest alone. 



THE MOTHER WAS THERE. 



A Savior was born quite a long time ago — 

Or so the old legend continues to go; 

But whether a fable or whether a fact, 

Has little to do with a certain great act: 

If babe was e'er born to breathe the earth-air — 

A Savior or sinner — the mother was there. 

Though God-like or sinful and born out of fame. 
To every true mother the babe is the same. 
Once seen and once coddled, asleep on her breast. 
Her life is illumined, her soul is at rest. 
Though Christ was a Savior, when babyhood care 
Demanded attention, his mother was there. 

Give Jesus due credit for miracles wrought, 
And all the "glad tidings" to earth he e'er brought; 
Aye! shout with loud voices his high, holy name, 
And give him for virtue and goodness due fame. 
But do not forget in the worship and prayer, 
That Mary, the mother, was certainly there. 

Though born to be mighty or humble and low; 
Though born amid riches, or squalor and woe; 
Though born well and active, or dullard in mind; 
Though born full of love or hate for mankind. 
With her sacred office of life, sweet and fair, 
In love, pain and patience, the mother was there. 

Now let us be just unto all humankind; 

Give credit to all for virtues we find; 

Be candid and honest, be noble and true. 

And help all our fellows to bear their load through; 

Help every good brother to bear his full share, 

But never forget that his mother was there. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 133 

THE SOUL OF THINGS. 



Though we love the leaves and flowers, and we smile to 
see them grow, 

Yet we seem so cold and heedless when in death they fall 
and go. 

Though their sweet and pretty faces oft adorn our pre- 
cious dead. 

It is seldom we take notice when they fall where we must 
tread. 

Have not leaves and flowers feeling, and a language that 

they speak, 
When they smile up at the sunlight that with kisses paints 

each cheek? 
Do they never whisper to us in the fragrance of the soul, 
That they, too, are living beings in the great Eternal 

Whole? 

Do their sweet and charming faces never touch the hu- 
man heart. 

And in death and love and marriage play a quite import- 
ant part? 

Do they not appeal in beauty to the highest thoughts of 
mind? 

Do they not deserve attention from the soul of human 
kind? 

Are there no green leaves in soul-land? Are there no sweet 

flowers there? 
Are their fragrance and their beauty gone forever into 

air? 
If they perish when they wither from the mortal, fall and 

die, 
So man's spirit with the body in the graveyard there must 

lie. 

If the souls of things e'er perish, then of man the same 
is true. 

And if man continues onward, onward go the flowers, too, 

If 'tis but a change of body, when the leaves and flowers 
fall. 

Then their souls must rise immortal out beyond the earth- 
ly wall. 



134 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

From her depths of soul evolving Nature builds all living 

things; 
From her fount of living matter into mortal life she 

brings 
All existing things through spirit and through spirit 

back they flow, 
Thus the leaves and flowers, coming, back in spirit must 

all go. 



THE WINNER OVER THERE. 



While humanity is racing to get money foul or fair. 
While men scramble, push and hustle 
Through this life of bone and muscle, 
I oft wonder who the winner of the laurels will be c/er 
there. 

Over there! over there! 
I wonder who'll be winner over there. 

Some are thriving, some are starving in this world of do 
and dare. 

Some are rising, some are falling 
With alacrity appalling, 
And I wonder who the winner and the loser will be there. 
Over there! over there! 
Who the winner and the loser over there. 

Will it be the greedy grabber of a multimillionaire 
Or will it be true merit 
The kingdom will inherit, 
Then the one they call the sinner may be winner over 
there. 

Over there! over there! 
Then the sinner may be winner over there. 

If the just shall be rewarded and the unjust treated fair; 

If to wisdom all is trusted , 

All this strife will be adjusted 
In an equitable manner in the future over there. 
Over there! over there! 

In an equitable manner over there. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 135 



BABY GLENN. 



A Grandma's Soul-Breathings. 

Well, my babies are all married and have homes now of 

their own, 
And I seem to be so conscious that in life I am alone. 
But I have just time to murmur and a sigh to heave and 

then 
I'm off to see my first grandchild, my pretty Baby Glenn. 

I had just got fairly settled, and how queer it seemed to 

me, 
That from years of wearing labor I should suddenly get 

free ; 
Without the care of home and babes, all alone to plod 

again — 
A letter came: "It is a boy! We've named him Robert 

Glenn!" 

Once more my mother soul arose as on great wings of 

love, 
And from my lonely room went free to realms of bliss 

above! 
Again I felt upon my breast a little form, as when 
My first-born came; at once I went to little Baby Glenn. 

Again within my bosom throbs a heart with love aflame. 
With all the joys of motherhood, since little Glennie came; 
I just can't keep from pinching him, and kissing him, 

and then 
He fists me and he coos at me, my pretty Baby Glenn. 



Though the purple and fine linen 

Hafe often hidden sinin 
The texture and material are the same. 

Have often hidden sin in 

Because it is innateness 
That is virtue in all things — not the name. 



136 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

NO COLOR LINE AROUND THE MANSION DOOR. 



Some white-folks are good Christians, and some colored 

folks as well, 
But they each have lost their Devil and their brimstone 

fiery Hell, 
And no corner will be granted on religion any more. 
Nor do spirits draw the color-line around the mansion 

door. 

The modern Christian vanity just fits the modern creed. 

Where religion builds big churches with the money peo- 
ple need. 

They can worship God in fashion and with diamonds 
covered o'er. 

But they cannot draw the color-line around the mansion 
door. 

All the gaudiness and tinsel, all the steeples large and 

high. 
Cannot pave the way to heaven when a person comes to 

die. 
All the pomp of human beings who are selfish to the core, 
Will not, cannot draw the color-line around the mansion 

door. 

All religions ever fostered or established on the earth. 
Have been given through the beings of a meek and lowly 

birth. 
And no God of love can sanction, on that bright, celestial 

shore, 
And no Master draw the color-line around the mansion 

door. 

Oft in dingy, lowly hovels are more Christ-like Christians 

found 
Than in palaces and mansions on the earthly plane 

abound. 
And while all alike are favored with the things for them 

in store, 
They can never draw the color-line around the mansion 

door. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 137 

AFTER THANKSGIVING — A VISION. 



How pleased must be Jehovah at the host of earthly 

cranks, 
Who must pause from other labor to send up to Him 

their thanks, 
And the angels all around Him have, no doubt, a pleasant 

smile 
At this cruel way of thanking in a turkey-killing style. 

I think I see Jehovah now, reclining on His throne, 
A Bible on the altar — in his hand a turkey bone; 
Down by His side the Savior taking notes of all the 

prayers 
That ascend upon Thanksgiving, and that multiply His 

cares. 

"Farmer Johnson," as recorded, "is so thankful for good 

corn. 
And his family is thankful for the turkeys that were 

born." 
"Deacon Brown is humbly thankful that one who owed 

him, paid. 
And that others might do likewise, he most sincerely 

prayed." 

Here's a grocer who is thankful he has prospered all the 

year. 
And is praying that the future be just doubly full of 

cheer. 
Here's a baker and a butcher, and a banker, thankful too. 
And a clothier and a lawyer, here are doctors not a few. 

Here's a preacher on half-ration and a salary behind. 
Who is thankful to Jehovah for attentions good and kind; 
Here's a man who runs a paper, who is full of push and 

pluck, 
He is thankful to Jehovah for his patrons and good luck. 

O'er the planet many others are recorded at the throne. 
As expressing to Jehovah thanks for that they made and 

own, 
But here comes a sickly widow with her children at her 

side. 



138 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

And whose ragged clothing covers not the brown and 
freezing hide. 

When the Savior sees this mother, in His eye there comes 

a tear; 
"Yes, I'm thankful, O, Jehovah," she repeats so He can 

hear — 
"For these darlings thou hast given; hear a mother's 

earnest prayer, 
That another year will find them not so ragged and so 

bare." 

Then the Savior drew His pencil and he marked the book 
all o'er, 

Who were thankful for successes and had plenty laid in 
store 

And forgetful of the mothers who were sick and in de- 
spair. 

He just blotted from the record, with a justifying air. 

And I seem to see Jehovah as He sits upon the throne, 

Looking o'er the blotted record, drop his ancient turkey- 
bone. 

And he looks so much disgusted with the people of the 
earth. 

Where the Turkey in religion holds a place of highest 
worth. 

Where the Christian lacks religion that is sweet and true 

and pure, 
That looks out for lowly mothers and starvation's lasting 

cure ; 
Where a Christian is a Christian for the sake of gaining 

gold, 
And neglects the sacred duty towards the hungry and the 

cold. 



The greatest height attained by man 
Was possible when life began. 
Through struggling ages on and on 
Came matter's day and spirit's dawn. 



The face is character's index in man. 
Time may wear, but deface it never can. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 139 

A TOUCHING SERMON. 



I can never meet a cripple when I'm out upon the street, 
But I wonder: Were I crippled would this life be just as 

sweet? 
And the answer and the echo make me tremble on my 

feet, 
For the truth is so apparent that the echo must repeat. 

It is such a touching sermon that no language can por- 
tray. 

For no tongue can ever handle and no pen can e'er dis- 
play 

All the sweetness of the living of a whole man day by 
day. 

After passing by the cripples in throngs upon the way. 

No one knows till he has tried it, what it is to lose a leg. 
And to be obliged to travel all through life upon a peg; 
No one knows the crushed ambition of a cripple who must 

beg; 
No one senses other's troubles till he tastes their bitter 

dreg. 

But we can subdue much sorrow and allay the deeper 

pain 
Of the cripples by assisting with a portion of our gain. 
And we know not what the morrow will be bringing in 

its train, 
For this life with all its changes is uncertain in the main. 



A barking dog, a noisy man, 

A god of wood or stone, 
Will make this life more wretched than 

No god at all to own. 



*Tis never right to train a child 
To listen and be reconciled. 
But rather choose to seek the light 
Of truth, and question even right. 



140 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

A SWEET LITTLE BABY ASLEEP. 



This world has for me perfect grandeur; 

I drink from its measureless deep, 
But nothing in sweetness can touch me 

Like a sweet little baby asleep. 
I watch it with soulful emotion, 

With infinite rapture and joy; 
I sense the eternal, the future, 

Of a spirit still free from alloy. 

I love the bald mountains, green valleys, 

And rivers that windingly flow, 
Now onward and downward, and ever 

Outreaching for channels below. 
I love the sweet fragrance of springtime, 

And autumn, with tints bright and deep; 
But there's nothing inspires my spirit 

Like a sweet little baby asleep. 

I watch the we lambkins a-gambol 

Upon the green meadow in glee. 
And open-mouthed birdlings aquiver 

For food in the green-leafed old tree; 
I watch the white piggies a-nursing. 

But my soul's richest harvest I reap, 
When silently, lovingly watching 

A sweet little baby asleep. 

Ah, who in the mortal can measure. 

Unless by experience they know. 
The depth of affection of fathers. 

Or the mother's soul overflow? 
Ah, who can perceive the great influx 

And outflow of love that can keep 
True fathers and mothers close watching 

Their sweet little Laby asleep? 

The soul's deepest pleasure of earth-life, 

The pleasure of angels above. 
Can never outweigh or outmeasure 

The strength of a true mother's love; 
But the weight and the strength of the silence 

Make Nature with gladness to weep. 
When father and mother are watching 

Their sweet little baby asleep. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 141 



THROUGH HOLD) AYS. 



Have you made somebody happy who with pain and sor- 
row burned? 

Then a portion of true happiness you certainly have 
earned. 

If you gave as you were able of the wealth you had in 
store, 

You but did your duty nobly; could a millionaire do 
more? 

If your whole soul did the prompting your benevolence 
was backed 

By your loving inner conscience and the motive in the 
act. 

You may not have reached as many as the multimillion- 
aire. 

But if you did your utmost with the means you had to 
spare, 

You should feel the satisfaction that the happiness you 
gave 

Will enhance the future welfare of your soul beyond the 
grave. 

But the gifts without the hoping for returns some future 
day. 

Are the gifts of purest motives and unselfishness alway. 

There seems something very narrow in the soul that will 
not give 

From his plenty to the needy who around him have to 
live. 

But no other soul can judge him from his proper point 
of view. 

And not wear the same conditions that his brother trav- 
eled through; 

So let's leave unjudged all others to their fate with Father 
Time, 

For the future may unfold them to a beauty more sub- 
lime. 

'Tis enough for us to measure all the goodness we possess 
To the world we see around us seeking earthly happiness; 



142 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

'Tis enough for us to succor those we know who need 

our aid; 
'Tis enough for us to lighten others' burdens up the 

grade; 
Then let's leave to those who falter just to labor as they 

feel, 
While we put our strongest shoulder to some helpless 

brother's wheel. 



A CHRISTMAS DREAM. 



I had a dream of yesterday — of forty years ago; 

Sweet dream, sweet dream of yesterday, when life was 

all aglow. 
A dream of real Christmas time, as Christmas used to be. 
When happy childhood hung sublime upon each Christmas 

tree. 
I sat again within that home, that old log house of yore; 
Within that home, that dear old home and was a child 

once more. 

I heard my mother calling "Will" to go and call the rest 
From off the hill, the dear old hill, with snow upon its 

crest. 
I heard him call to "John" and "Bing," and then I heard 

my name; 
I heard each voice in answer ring upon the air the same. 
I saw my sister Kate again, that old familiar smile 
Upon her face that spoke so plain of love without a guile. 

I saw my sister Candice, too, the eldest of us all; 

That gentle soul who always knew when Santa Clans 

should call. 
I saw my mother making pies just as she used to when 
She made the best beneath the skies; — at least I thought 

so then. 
I saw my father's dear old face, that twinkle in his eyes. 
As he tiptoed around the place in Santa Clans' disguise. 

I saw him fill each stocking full and move around the bed 
As though each little nose he'd pull or stroke each little 
head. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 143 

I dreamed 'twas Christmas morn again; the snow was 

piled in drifts, 
And we piled out in gladness then to get our Christmas 

gifts. 
And how our childish eyes would gleam with thoughts of 

Santa's face, 
And oh, how sweet to live and dream and childhood's 

steps retrace. 

But, oh, what disappointment came I never shall forget. 
And Christmas never seemed the same; it always brought 

regret, 
When I was told, along in youth, the real Santa's name; 
When I was told the real truth no Christmas was the 

same. 
I loved my parents just the same, but from that story 

drew 
Fantastic weal that never came when Santa Claus I knew. 

From that time on until to-day, except in precious 
dream, 

Each Christmas passed without that gay and hopeful 
hidden gleam. 

Oh, give me back those blessed tales that made my child- 
heart glad; 

In dreams give back those sweet old tales; that dear old 
Santa fad. 

Oh, let me dream and dream all o'er those happy Christ- 
mas days, 

Of home and joys, and hearts that wore a mother's love 
always. 



THAT SPECTRE. 



You may watch for silver lining 
As the clouds pass to and fro, 

But the sun is never shining 
On the cradle and the hoe. 

While the hoe is toiling mostly 
For the cradle-rocking hand. 

There's a spectre grim and ghostly 
In this blessed Christian land. 



144 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

There's a spectre that is haunting 
Every city, every town, 

Ever waiting, ever wanting 
To put on a golden crown. 

There's a spectre grim and bony. 
Stalking o'er this commonwealth: 

'Tis the old-time, ancient crony, 
Never "walking for its health." 

'Tis the spectre "Superstition;" 
Ancient chum of "Poverty;" 

Seeking victims for transition 
To the realm Eternity. 

He has lured from every station. 
Through a promise of reward. 

He inhabits every nation 

Where he finds responsive chord. 

Finds responsive mortals kneeling 
And invoking everywhere; 

To the God of wrath appealing 
In a loud and lengthy prayer. 

Here he pauses in the dimness 
Of a poorly lighted room. 

And he breathes in awful grimness. 
Cruel, solemn words of doom. 

And he breathes a prayer of beauty 
To the god of shining gold, 

And he makes his holy duty 
But the herding of his fold. 

There's a ghost of human squalor 
Stalking 'round in deepest woe, 

Making human faces paler; 
'Tis the Trust, and not the hoe. 

In this age of fast progression 
Where the wheels of fortune go, 

Stands the spectre of oppression 
Near the cradle and the hoe. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 145 

SO APPALLING. 



When we have to place the body of a loved one 'neath 

the ground, 
There is such an awful feeling comes with that low, rum- 
bling sound 

Of the careless falling clay- 
That is hiding them away 
In the depths of Mother Nature 'neath a little earthly 
mound ; 

When we hear the hard clods falling 
There is something so appalling, 
That we turn away and shudder at the awful, awful sound. 

When we scatter seeds for growing, and we rake them 

'neath the ground. 
We can sense no wave of terror, and we hear no awful 
sound 

Of the careless falling clay 
That is hiding them away. 
For we look for future changes and production all 
around; 

But we hear the hard clods falling, 
And there's something so appalling 
When a loved one's form lies lifeless down beneath that 
awful sound. 

Just to know that there forever deeply hidden from our 

view 
Lies the form of some dear spirit, almost haunts us 
through and through; 

Those dear lips we used to kiss 
With a sense of deepest bliss, 
When we knew the heart beneath them shared the pleas- 
ure and was true; 

When we hear the hard clods falling 
There is something so appalling. 
Though we know the spirit risen is at home beyond the 
blue. 



The voice of conscience well obeyed, 
Beats any precept, bible-made. 



146 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

THE DEAR PROPITIOUS NOW. 



Do you know what you are gaining by your work for 
truth and right? 

Do you know what you are gaining by your valor in the 
fight? 

Do you know what you are gaining by your ardor and 
your love, 

And your labor for upliftment, in the justice courts above? 

Do you know what you are losing by not holding to your 
vow 

To build up the cause you love so, by your strongest ef- 
forts now? 

Were the gold the wealth substantial in the future as 

the now, 
It were better to obtain it, and no matter where or how; 
But the roll of evolution and the many changes here, 
Tel] us plainly that such riches, at the border disappear, 
And the good that folks accomplish by their thought and 

word and deed, 
Will be wealth to them in spirit when from earth posses- 
sions freed. 

Oh, how foolish seem the creatures who are loaded down 

with gold. 
And who know the time is coming, as the form is growing 

old. 
And they fully know the passing is a thing so sure to 

come, 
To still cling to earthly riches, and to be in spirit dumb. 
If they know the veil is falling o'er their lives on earth 

to-day. 
They should use their means while with it lest its virtue 

fade away. 

Build a temple, build a college, or a home for helpless 

ones, 
Build a home for mothers, fathers, or the daughters and 

the sons 
Who are victims of misfortune, of disease or accident, 
And in conscience in the future know your money is well 

spent. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 147 

Do not wait in will to leave it till you make your final 

bow; 
Would you use it for good purpose, you should use your 

money now. 

There are ways prepared by schemers to destroy a codicil. 
But they can't prevent your present use of money as you 

will. 
There are ways and means for doing with your wealth 

a mighty good 
For the cause you hold so highly, and the fact is under- 
stood, 
That to do a thing with money without fuss or legal row, 
Is to do it while you're with it, in the dear propitious 
now. 



AS A DEWDROP TO THE ROSE. 



Ah! I know a little fellow, bless his little baby toes, 
Who has come into my being as a dewdrop to a rose. 
It is true, he's just a baby, with his baby ways, but then. 
He's a precious little darling, is this little Robert Glenn. 

Yes, his name is Robert Glenn, sir, and we call him 

Bobbie, too. 
Just "for short," you know, for babies must be babies 

through and through. 
And he grows more cute and dearer as the more he grows 

and knows. 
And to me he brings the freshness of the dewdrop to the 

rose 

I'm a lover of sweet babies, and most all are sweet to me; 

They are sweet and ci.te and cunning, with their mean- 
ness yet to be. 

But this little Glenn is sweeter, as he more precocious 
grows. 

And he brings my soul the richness of the dewdrop to the 
rose. 

I am aging some in body — though I still am strong and 
spry — 



148 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

And I know, as with all others, who are passing on and 

by. 
That my spirit must be loosened from the form, but as it 

goes 
It will bear this baby's sweetness of the dewdrop to the 

rose. 

When my spirit passes over, if his spirit still remains, 
I should like to guard and guide him, free from all de- 
grading stains. 
Or secure a holy angel from whose spirit sweetness flows, 
To become his living sponsor, as the dewdrop to the rose. 

If his grandma should precede him to the land of soul, I 

know 
That his sweet, unfolding spirit would be guarded from 

each foe, 
For she guards him from the dangers with a love that 

ever glows 
For his future life's unfoldment, as the dewdrop to the 

rose. 



OUR WORLD IS AS WE MAKE IT. 



There can be but little reason for one wishing himself 

dead, 
Unless it be within him, in the wasted life he's led. 
This world is full of beauty and of Nature's own sweet 

yield. 
And no being need go hunting for a more prolific field. 

There are sunshine, rain and flowers, and sweet fragrance 

everywhere ; 
There is plenty of sweet pleasure intermingled with the 

care; 
There are storms and raging tempests, and succeeding 

them the calm; 
There are pains of soul and body, and for each a healing 

balm. 

Every chord of sweetest music finds responsive vibrant 
tone; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 149 

Every love-thought pressing onward, seeking, sometime 
finds its own; 

Every fit of angry passion stirs life's calm and placid sea; 

Every selfish thought and action robs the soul of sym- 
pathy. 

All the world is evoluting, ever changing, low to high; 
All unfolding, growing, rising, but can never fully die. 
And a suicidal spirit only leaps across the bay, 
There to find the scenes more gloomy 'till the clouds are 
brushed away. 

Any world or sphere of action has its darkness and its 
light; 

Has its pleasures and its sadness; has its growth and has 
its blight. 

There is no escaping loophole near the winding golden 
stair; 

One's whole life is as he makes it, on the earth and every- 
where. 

If we have but woe and sadness on this lovely earthly 

plane. 
To expect it on another will most surely be in vain, 
'Till we light the lamp within us, and then any world will 

be 
From the darkness, and the evil, and the blindness ever 

free. 



HE CALMLY '*UPS AND DIES. 



Just about the time a fellow gets important in his head, 
And begins to think the world without him would become 

quite dead; 
Just about the time a fellow thinks that he is great and 

wise, 
And the world must roll around him, then he calmly 

"ups and dies." 

Just about the time a fellow gets a home that suits him 

well. 
And he laughs at all his neighbors, and his head begins 

to swell; 



150 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Just about the time a fellow thinks it isn't hard to rise. 
And he climbs upon the ladder, then he calmly "ups and 
dies." 

Just about the time a fellow thinks he's past the greatest 
strife. 

And that he has reached the highest and the best of earth- 
ly life; 

Just about the time a fellow feels above the normal size, 

And the world to him must kowtow, then he calmly "ups 
and dies." 

Just about the time a fellow thinks 'tis he that moves the 

earth, 
And the little folks around him have no great intrinsic 

worth; 
Just about the time a fellow lifts his nasal toward the 

skies. 
And tip-toes about his highest, then he calmly "ups and 

dies." 

Just about the time a fellow gets his wings and feathers 

plumed 
To rise above and o'er all others whom he thinks are only 

"doomed;" 
Just about the time a fellow thinks he's IT, he meets 

surprise. 
For the world can plainly read him — then he calmly "ups 

and dies." 

Just about the time a fellow gets inflated in his soul, 
And he wouldn't trade his chances for all others for the 

goal; 
Just about the time a fellow thinks the mote is in his 

eyes, 
And the beam is in his brother's, then he calmly "ups 

and dies." 



The most of life is made by those 

Who sit not idly down. 
But plunge along through endless woes, 

With smile instead of frown. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 
MY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FRIEND. 



151 




ROBERT GLENN. 



Here is pretty little "Bobbie," 
and in years he is just two; 

Don't you think that you could 
love him with all the love in 
you? 

Do you wonder that the high- 
est of my being lingers there, 

Like a humming-bird in hunger 
round a flower, sweet and 
rare? 

Do you sense the inspiration 
in that face and angel smile? 

Do you wonder at the tinting 
of my poems for awhile? 



He is not my own wee "Bobbie," only as the world is 

mine, 
But the height of joy he gives me is a touch of the Divine. 
And I live my life all over, with the added strength that 

time 
And experiences afford me, in a world of dream sublime. 
He has touched my passing spirit with his little angel 

hand. 
And my soul seems re-illumined with a brightness pure 

and grand. 

I can hear his sweet voice calling, in a wave of sound 

divine, 
And I always feel his spirit ere his baby lips touch mine. 
In the form we may be parted; ah! a shudder comes o'er 

me! 
But my soul will hear him calling back wherever he may 

be: 
'Kaka! Kaka! No-no, Kaka! No-no! No-no work to-day," 
For he always knew my presence meant a joyful spell of 

play. 

Still— I could not be so selfish as to hold him far away 
From his parents, who must miss him, for a year or for 
a day, 



152 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Though I sadden in my thinking how my heartstrings 

will be drawn, 
When my precious little "Bobbie," with that angel smile 

is gone, 
And I sense the coming darkness to succeed the sunny 

light. 
And the lonely dream now haunts me as a gloomy dismal 

night. 

But there is a spark of brightness that shall linger ever- 
more, 

And I know it will illumine my lone spirit o'er and o'er; 

'Tis the rays of light extracted from this little shining 
star. 

And 'twill light my lonely pathway in fond mem'ries from 
afar. 

I am living on the nectar of his childhood's sweetest days, 

And I know, if I am conscious, I shall see that face al- 
ways. 



A MOSQUITO UNTO MAN. 



Let me sing to you, my brother, tho' it seem a little odd. 

And may taunt your feeble conscience, let me sing about 
your God: 

While you swell with greater wisdom, and conceit in hu- 
man bud, 

We are both to nature loyal in our appetites for blood. 

You exterminate the insect at the threshold of the grave. 
And in wisdom talk of spirit and of God, so strong and 

brave. 
You forget that we are fashioned in accordance with the 

"mud," 
And that both, within a limit, are just out for human 

blood. 

You forget that Mother Nature makes no living thing in 

vain, 
And that life means life eternal, whether winged or in a 

brain. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 153 

You forget this world without you would continue just 

the same, 
And revolved upon its axis long before a human came. 

You forget your very smallness when you look at smaller 

things; 
You forget that often largeness some great inconvenience 

brings; 
You forget that every being that expresses is divine, 
And that you have your own value in this world and I 

have mine. 

You assume there is a future for the human soul, but 

none 
For the little, pesty insect, when its earthly life is done. 
You will find your pests in spirit to disturb your perfect 

ease, 
Though the heavens never open to mosquitoes or to fleas. 

You will find the thoughts of hatred and of envy through 

the years, 
Like the pesty little insects, will be buzzing round your 

ears. 
You will find the same old tiger or the snake that you 

have been. 
Tagging close behind your spirit when St. Peter lets you 

in. 

I'm a sucker! don't deny it; always after human gore! 

I was born through laws of Nature, as was man; no less; 
no more; 

And I claim the same eternal will be mine through Na- 
ture's will. 

And would feign remind my brother I've a mission and 
a bill. 

I am looking to the future, when man's spirit seems to be 
From the trials and the insects in its spirit mansion free. 
When again I can light on him and subdue my hung'ring 

soul, 
And remind him we are brothers in the Great Eternal 

Whole. 



No pleasure in heaven and privileged to smell 
The fumes of the children smouldering in hell. 



154 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

ST. PETER'S BOUNCER. 



I have little aspiration for a place the world calls great, 
But I'd like to be the "bouncer" for St Peter at the gate. 
I don't think I could be cruel, but I could be very just. 
And when some folks rapped for entrance I would show 
them my disgust. 

I don't think I should be blinded by the sparkle of a gem. 
And permit some gilded fraud to wear the royal diadem. 
I don't think I should be wheedled into taking to my fold 
Any scheming mortal tyrant, by the glitter of his gold. 

And I know I should not falter when a weeping mother 

came 
With her spirit full of sadness and her bosom all aflame 
With the love that knows no hindrance, and that stands 

above all sin, 
Though she was in rags and tatters, to just welcome h^r 

right in. 

And I know that, though St. Peter has been hardened by 

the years. 
And the constant strain of liars, to the flow of human 

tears. 
Yet he would not sit in silence while I opened that big 

gate. 
Lest a moment should be wasted and thus make the 

mother wait. 

I should like to be his "bouncer" when the scandal-mon- 
ger comes. 

With his load of green persimmons to present for sugar- 
plums. 

I would dote upon my office as a means to point the way 

To the sphere of those who slandered, where the scandal- 
mongers stay. 

I should like to be the "bouncer" when the human hog 

appears. 
With his air of "full possession" he has gained in earthly 

years. 
I should like to lead him into the great hog-pen of that 

place. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 155 

And observe the marks of anger on his piggish looking 
face. 

I should like to be the "bouncer" when the autocrat ap- 
pears, 

And proceed to kindly lead him to the silent vale of tears 

That his tyrant soul helped fashion by the tears of bitter 
grief 

He has wrung from other mortals, and there let him find 
relief. 

I should like to be the "bouncer" when a heartless wretch 

appears, 
Who has beaten dogs and horses, or his wife and little 

dears; 
Oh, wouldn't I remand him to a dungeon of a cell. 
And just paint upon his vision all the tortures of his hell? 

I should like to be his "bouncer" when the preachers 

troop along 
With their look of perfect certainty of standing o'er the 

throng. 
I should teach them that the heaven for all persons free 

from sin. 
Is not now by Peter guarded, but by conscience down 

within. 

I should like to show the egotist his smallness over there; 
With his full dimensions mirrored in the Truth's bright 

gleaming glare, 
Right beside an humble being whom he held beneath his 

heel. 
Just to give him some sensation as to how his brothers 

feel. 

Yes, I'd like to be the "bouncer" for St. Peter for awhile, 
For I'd like to do some sorting in the very latest style. 
There would be but little winter for the high fraud or 

the low, 
And the hell they made for others would be kept for them 

aglow. 



Good acts are but the jewels of the soul; 
Bad ones are but the death-bell's dismal toll. 



156 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

PITY FOR JESUS. 



How I pity that poor Jesus, for I know he must be sore 
And so weary with the burdens he is bearing evermore. 
Just his own light-weighing burdens would be naught 

for him to bear, 
But the sins of other people he must handle over there. 

He was followed by a rabble with the cross upon his back, 
And was handled with a fierceness by a mob of demons 

black, 
But he bore it all contented, for it was "the Father's 

will," 
And the weaklings are imposing all their burdens on him 

still. 

And because they say they love him they will load him 

down with care, 
When his spirit should be resting from its earthly labors 

there; 
And it makes me truly sorry for a brother who is kind, 
And is loaded down with clamor from the sinners left 

behind. 

I don't think the Father loves him as a father should just 

now. 
Or such awful impositions He would never still allow; 
He would take him to his bosom in a kind, parental way, 
And let earthly sinning children bear their own sins for 

a day. 

It is certainly unkind of folks to load a brother down 
Just because he bears it ever with a smile instead of 

frown, 
But there'll surely come a time some day when each must 

take his own. 
In the grand and golden future all must reap what they 

have sown. 

And I think I see the Brother overseeing Christian squads 
Who have dumped their sins on saviors and are seeking 

for their Gods; 
And I see that Jesus smiling as he takes each by the 

hand 
And proceeds to give him justice in that holy spirit land. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 157 

CONSOLATION TO MOURNERS. 



Naught e'er is lost in death — so called, 
Though loved ones pass from view, 

And we look on the corpse appalled. 
Death only makes them nev/. 

In death all earthly fetters fall 

And spirit is set free; 
Ah! this great change must come to all, 

Though worm or man he be. 

We look upon the form in death 

And sorrow dark and deep 
Seems grasping for our heart and breath, 

Yet peaceful is that sleep. 

The pulse is gone, the life is gone; 

The life to us so dear. 
The liberated soul goes on 

To seek a higher sphere. 

We, left behind to weep and mourn. 

So lonely every day, 
Try hard to look beyond that bourne 

For those we laid away. 

We seem to know that they are there. 
For love looks back through space 

And smiles and beckons us somewhere. 
To meet them face to face. 

Man shuts his mortal eyes in death 

And gasps and all is o'er; 
A sigh, and with the sighing breath 

Flits to the other shore. 

Lay off the old! put on the new! 

Thus rise we from the low 
Of earth, and pass from mortal view 

To scenes we do not know. 

He glides about from place to place 
And meets old friends in awe; 

They never look into his face. 
But silently withdraw. 



168 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

There hangs about the earth a screen 
Through which but few can see, 

A kind of curtain drawn between 
Earth-souls and souls set free. 

Could all perceive with spirit eye, 
Disjoined from mortal cla5% 

They might discern that those who die 
Are not so far away. 

We find the earth a lonely spot 
When loving ones pass on; 

They may be nearer than we know; 
The soul may not be gone. 

We wonder why we see no more 

A sister's smiling face; 
No doubt she wonders from that shore 

If we her form can trace. 

No doubt she oft stands very near 

And looks into our eyes 
And wonders why she can't appear 

And bring a sweet surprise. 

Some day, some time, we shall behold 
The loved ones free above, 

Where none grow weary, weak and old, 
And there renew our love. 



SONG OF THE TURKEY. 



I must strut around the barnyard while the day is bright 
and clear, 

For Thanksgiving time is coming and I soon must dis- 
appear. 

Chorus:— I will gobble, gobble, gobble, 
I will gobble while I can. 
Though I know I'm only gobbling 
To be "gobbled" up by man. 

I am stately and quite robust, and the world is at my feet, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 1^50 

For while praying and while thanking they all worship 
turkey meat. 
Chorus: — I will gobble, gobble, gobble, etc. 

I am king, though but a turkey, and I rule with greatest 

might; 
1 control all Christian nations through the taste and 

appetite. 

Chorus: — I will gobble, gol)ble, gobble, etc. 

I have little competition, and within my swollen bust 
I have something in which Christians have completely 
placed their trust. 

Chorus: — I will go1)ble, gobble, gobble, etc. 

I have such a charming bosom that this pious saintly 

horde 
Have now placed me on the level with their meek and 

lowly Lord. 

Chorus: — I will gobble, gobble, gobble, etc. 

I will stand before the altar in great thankfulness for 

life 
That was given me from nature for the sacred Christian 

knife. 

Chorus: — I will gobble, gobble, gobble, etc. 

Right before the throne I'll gobble in the spirit unafraid; 
As a relic of Thanksgiving up in heaven I'll parade. 

Chorus: — I will gol)ble, gobble, gobble, etc. 

I will strut before the Savior and will gobble in high glee 
At the entrance of each Christian that once helped to 
murder me. 

Chorus: — I will gobble, gobble, gobble, etc. 



The calmest hours are those that follow 

The storm of fiercest mien; 
But oft is stillest waters shallow, 

And largest weakest ])rain. 



160 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

MAKE PEACE WITH YOl K SOt L. 



Make peace with your soul now, oh. man; 

Make peace with your own soul to-day: 
Make peace with your foes while you can, 

For Death is swift coming your way. 

Fear not, for his blessed old face 

Brings peace to the good and the true; 

Brings rest to the weary — a place 

For all — all a home bright and new. 

He comes in the deep dark of night; 

He comes in the bright light of day; 
He comes with his old beacon light, 

To pilot man over the way. 

You cannot avoid him. oh, man, 
You cannot escape his keen eye; 

But fear not, for in the great plan 
'Tis only a changing to die. 

'Tis only the passing from earth 

To conscious new being somewhere; 

'Tis only a natural birth 

Out into a country more fair. 

If you have caused sorrow or pain; 

If you have made love sad and drear, 
Make peace with your soul on this plane 

And peace to that love while yet here. 

Make peace with your soul and be true; 

Be kind and be gentle to all, 
As Nature is kind unto you 

In having old Death make his call. 

Make peace with your soul and be grand; 

Be noble, forgiving and just; 
Be true to yourself and command 

Of Nature her holiest trust. 

Make peace with your soul and with life; 

Make peace with the angels above; 
Make peace with all labor and strife; 

For peace is the palace of love. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 
MY OWX BABY, LEO. 



161 




\' 



I can hear somebody asking, in 

in a low and whispered tone, 
"Did he ever have a darling 

little baby of his own?" 
And the answer rises in me 

with a great big "YES SIR- 

EE;" 
But he is no longer baby; he 

has grown to six-foot-three. 

Ah! Yes, as a little baby he 

was just as sweet to me, 
And as dear as any baby in 
BABY LEO. this world could ever be. 

Though as he has grown much longer he no longer is a 

child 
On the bosom of his father, a wee baby undefiled. 

T love him — as a father — not a mother — loves a grown- 
up boy. 

And to know that he is living lirings me pleasure, brings 
me joy, 

And I plainly feel the touches of his l)aby fingers when 

I press close unto my bosom the wee form of Baby Glenn. 

He can never be forgotten while to consciousness I hold. 
But he now is up in manhood and his father, growing old. 
Can but hold in sweet remembrance all those baby days 

now done. 
When he touches and he kisses some one else's little one. 

Yes, my little Baby Leo was his father's greatest joy, 

While an infant, and I love him as a great ])ig grown-up 
boy, 

But his face, o'ergrown with l)rist]es, is no longer touch- 
ing mine 

With its soft and tender surface, and its sense of the 
Divine. 

Time nor death can e'er efface it from the tablets of my 
life. 



162 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Nor erase the sacred knowledge of a mother and a wife, 
And I oft recall with pleasure all those happy days again, 
As I press unto my bosom little baby, Robert Glenn. 

I am drinking in the pleasure of a spirit loaned to me 
To revive my higher being, sailing o'er life's troubled sea: 
I am basking in the sunlight of a baby soul of love, 
And preparing for the mansion I am l)uilding up above. 



RETROSPECTION. 



How dear are the strains that come floating 

Across from the evergreen shore; 
How grand that our friends are devoting 

To science their time evermore; 
How patient they waited, while rapping. 

No spirit can ever relate; 
How sweet though, a child heard them tapping, 

And lovingly opened the gate. 

How harsh to our hearts now the terrors — 

The yokes of the mythical past— 
But dear are the thoughts that those errors 

To reason are yielding at last. 
How vivid the fond recollection 

Portrays now the false and the true; 
And wisdom, in keen retrospection. 

Divines what the future will do. 

How strong are the ties of our kindred, 

Since Heaven is opened anew— 
The stone rolled away that has hindered 

And hidden our loved ones from view. 
How changed are the creeds of religion. 

From darkness of all human fate; 
Since catching the "reason" contagion 

In the year of "our own" — forty-eight. 



'Tis oft upon a smiling face 
We read the greatest danger 

And oft deceit we plainly tiace 
On sweetest smiling stranger. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 163 

AX ECHO SONG. 



**\Vhei*e Ai'o tlu' Friends That Are Gone?*' 

Oh, where are the friends that have gone on before — 
Those hearts that once throbbed with pure love? 

Oh, where are those faces and voices of yore? 
Are they in bright homes up above? 

Chorus — Where, oh, where are they now? 
Those forms and those faces; 
Gone from their old places; 
Where, oh, where are they now? 

Echo ! 

Out here in the soul-realm, where you will soon be; 

Out here in this bright beauty-land, 
Where no harm can e'er come and the spirit is free — 

Not far from your own little band. 

Chorus — Here, oh, here are we now. 
Our forms and our faces 
And here in new places. 
Here, oh, here are we now. 

And hast thou no home where there's rest and rei)ose? 

Where darkness is not, and no night 
Shall e'er draw around thee the curtain of woes 

To screen from the world thy life's light? 

Chorus — Where, oh, where art thou now? 
We see the dim traces 
Of forms and of faces — 
Where, oh, where art thou now? 

Echo ! 

In our homes; in' our homes; we are not far away! 

We hear your sweet voices in song. 
And are waiting and watching by night and by day. 
And know you will soon join our throng. 

Chorus — List! oh, list to us now. 
List to our voices! — 
Echoing voices! — 
I>ist! oh, list to us now! 



164 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Then, come, friends, oh, come, to the doorway between. 
Let's join the two worlds in one home; 

A home of soul-love, of peace, as serene 
As in Heaven's star-spangled dome. 

Chorus — Come, oh, come, let us sing 
Of worlds in reunion, 
Of souls in communion, 
Come, oh, come, let us sing! 

Echo ! 

We come, yes, we come to welcome the day 

When the portals are ever ajar; 
And all worlds united can sing a grand lay 

No discord of dem^ons can mar. 

Chorus — Come, oh, come, let us sing! 
Of worlds in reunion — 
Of souls in communion !^ — 
Come, oh. come, let us sing! 



I KAINT SEK NITHIN IN IT. 



Oh, de Mefodis' dey pull dis way an' de Raptis' dey pull 

dat, 
An' de Presbyterian tudder, an' I doan' know whar I's at. 
Den de Catherlic done tol' me dar's a half-way place fer 

me 
Ef I makes a full confeshun — dey calls hit i)urgatory — 
Ef I makes a full confeshun— ^wid de dollah in my han' — • 
I kin git beyant dat stashun to de blessed holy Ian'. 

Den de Christian an" de Advent, an de Universalist, 
All tell er diff'rent story, an' dey leaves me in de mist; 
Den de Lil)'ral he dun tol' me dat de Faddah made no 

creeds, 
An' de way ter git ter Hebbin is by doin' better deeds; 
Den de Tnferdel he reasons dat hit's no use fer ter bawl, 
Fer dat ol' man wid his mowin'-l)lade comes 'roun' an' 

gits us all. 



DR. T. WILKINS" POExMS. 165 

Den de Spirit'list he brings me ter er dark an" ghostly 
room. 

An' he tells me ter ])reathe easy an' he'll show me 'l)Oiit 
my doom; 

Den dey fohms a little circle 'roiin' er little cabbin do'. 

An' dey set an' wait fer speiits from dat green an' peace- 
ful sho', 

Till dey comes an' shows dere faces, an' dey walks out 
all erlone. 

An' dey pints out in de dimness ter de circle an' dere own. 

Yes, sah, kin' er like de sperits, an' den sein' is beliebin', 
An' de teachin' frum de Bible is er gittin' so deceibin', 
An' de pahsons am so cunnin' in de preachin' ol) ter-day, 
Dat dey takes de sinnah's money an' den pints him to de 

way, 
An' I kaint see nuthin in it but de salary dey draws 
Frum de mohnahs on de benches by de workin' ob dere 

jaws. 



PRAYER AND RESIGNATION. 



If it be thy will, O Nature, that my sadness shall trans- 
cend 
All the pleasures in the living, I will bear it to the end; 
If it be thy holy edict or my due in earthly life. 
To stand sipping from existence naught but pain and 

woe and strife, 
I will ])ear it; not a murmur from my burning soul will 

come, 
And my lips still warm with kissing little Bobbie shall l)e 

dumb. 

Fate has pinned my soul to sadness for a long or little 

while. 
By withdrawing from my presence that dear baby's i)retty 

smile; 
It has left my soul so lonely that I know not what to do. 
And T try to dream the horrid, cold, dark facts as all 

untrue; 
Then I wake and feel him near me, with his face o'er- 

spread the while 



166 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

With that same divinely lighted, and that honest baby 
smile. 

But when all my woes are measured, and when all is said 

and done, 
I am conscious there are others; I am not the only one. 
Aye! when I have had my limit, when my soul has had 

its fill. 
There* are many all around me deeper clown in sadness 

still, 
And while weeping l>linding teardrops in my lonely haunt- 
ing place. 
I can see those happy parents looking in that pretty face. 

And, oh. angels, how I pray you to give strength to that 

true heart - 
Of wee Bobbie's loving Grandma when 'tis time for them 

to part. 
I can feel the anguish coming to the hearts that are 

divine. 
And I know there comes a sadness far surpassing that of 

mine. 
And a prayer goes from within me to the angel guides 

each day. 
For the right and for the comfort of those loved ones far 

away. 



l^^XPEKIENCK. 



There stands an old mill where all humankind 
Must turn the great wheels their own grist to grind- 
■Round and around. 

For ages and ages this old mill has stood 
And ground all together, the bad and the good — 
■Round and around. 

It never is idle so long as exists 
A man or a woman who furnishes grists: 
Each one his own miller, each one his own pow'r, 
He grinds for himself the good or bad flour — 
'Round and around. 



DR. T. WILKINS. POEMS. 167 

Each one must pass through this ubiquitous mill 
Who passes this way, let him squirm as he will— 
'Round and around. 

Each one must do grinding to gain and to grow, 
Each one must do turning to make the mill go— 
■Round and around. 

All walk in the treadwheei that moves the great cogs 
Of life in its fullness, and watch for the clogs. 
No one can escape it; each mortal must learn, 
No matter how feeble, to give it a turn — 
'Round and around. 

It is grind in the morning and noontime of life, 
At nightfall when resting should man be from strife — 
•Round and around. 

From girlhood to mother and age is the plan — 
From birth into childhood, from youth to the man — 
■Round and around. 

'Tis constantly grinding on some one each day, 
And at nighttime, and ever 'tis turning away. 
All worlds keep revolving and changing, and still 
All life is evolving through this busy mill — 
'Round and around. 



I SHOULD LIKE TO HE THE DEVIL 



I should like to be the Devil, with his cute and cunning- 
ways, 

And be rolling in his riches during my eternal days. 

I should like to make some people, who are riding o'er 
the poor. 

Feel the weight of stern old Justice, through a kind of 
X-ray cure. 

T should like to be the Devil of the dim and misty yore. 
Who with forked tail and split-feet stood around each 

church-house door. 
They have turned their backs upon him as a handy thing 

obscure, 



168 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Since he gave back all their infants from his incubating 
cure. 

T should like to be the Devil for an earthly term of j^ears, 
To give back to human tyrants all their woe-creating 

tears. 
T should like to hold the noses to the grindstone for 

awhile. 
Of the ones who hold their l)rothers, with demoniacal 

smile. 

I should like to l)e the Devil, with his power all supreme, 
I would surely play the devil with the i)resent social 

scheme. 
1 should like to bake the Christian and consume his silly 

creed. 
And try-out the selfish tissue of all human sordid greed. 

I should like to be the Devil, with his once intrinsic 

worth, 
When he stood as God's "right-bower" in the running of 

the earth, 
And brought forth each great invention, much against 

Jehovah's will; 
1 should like to aid more fully in repairing this old mill. 

T should like to be the Devil, with the Devil's old-time 

sway ; 
1 should like to dig up victims of the Inquisition day, 
And hold up before the Christians as an echo of their 

songs, 
'I'he grim grinning skulls and dry-bones of their tortured 

human throngs. 

T should like to be the Devil that was pictured out by 
man. 

Who so oft appeared and thwarted God Almighty's per- 
fect plan. 

T should wield my strength for people who are blinded 
by the schemes 

That but rob them of the sweetness of their highest earth- 
ly dreams. 

T should like to be the Devil for an age or two and see 
How much better to the people than Jehovah I could be. 
I should like to brush the teardrops of his anger all away, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 169 

And bring peace along with plenty while upon the earth 
I stay. 

I should like to be the Devil on the earth a little spell, 
I would give the trusts a foretaste of their own deserving 

hell. 
1 would give them as to others they gave alms they only 

stole, 
Ample justice, ample cooking, in my heated cauldron 

bowl. 

T should like to be the Devil, with the progress he has 

made 
With religion and its tenets, all within the last decade; 
I'd use my ingenuity in inventing an X-ray 
That would bring the human conscience to the open 

light of day. 



DEY KAINT BE NO HEIJi. 



Dey use to tell us Splitfoot would sho' git us ef we lied, 
Ef we swore, er stole a chicken er a melon, when we died 
An' dey pointed to de 'nointed in dat manshun 'cross de 

way ; 
But de sinner am de winner, ef he's vOiart enough to play; 
Fur he gains de bigges' slices ob de j/leasures dat's to sell, 
An' dis life am jus' his Hebl)en, kase dey kaint be no Hell. 

Dey use to draw de curtain ob de sinner's feeble mind. 
Till de furnace ob dat hot place wid its white heat fairly 

sinned. 
An' de flurry an" de worry at de steepness cb de hill 
Right before 'em ofen bore 'em to disgorgin' ob de till; 
But dey's quit dat kin' ob preachin' an' dey now begin 

ter tell 
Dat yo' Hebbin's as yo' make it, an' dey kaint be no Hell. 

Dey's still fearin' ol) de Fadder, who dey say am kin' an' 

true, 
An' is allers fond ob grantin' to each pusson eb'ry due, 
I feel sorry, dre'ful sorry, an' I felt so from de fust, 



17:0 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Dat dey lay dere sins on Jesus an' in proofless faith dey 

trust; 
While de world am full ob knowledge dey kaint only git 

er smell, 
An' de ancient creeds am croakin' kase dey kaint be no 

Hell. 

It am awfully confusin to de igner'nt ones ob earth, 

To be fooled an' fleeced by preachers out ob all de sweetii 

dey's worth. 
All de measure ob der pleasure, an' de good thoughts 

killed wid fear; 
But dar's allers little callers in de fohm ob love an' cheer, 
Foh de wise men — 1)y deduction — am a changin' ob de 

spell 
Dat surroun's de Christian pulpit so's dey kaint be no 

Hell. 



LOTTIE AN J) I. 



(Written in 1870.) 

A soft white hand stole into mine upon a summer's day, 
Whilst I was looking into eyes that had so much to say. 
The magic touch of that dear hand I never shall forget, 
And those blue eyes, those loving eyes seem looking at 
me yet. 

And oh, how vivid memory portrays the scenes of yore. 
Of youthful dreams, of woods and streams, and days we 

would live o'er. 
How bright the future looked just then, while strolling 

on the green, 
'Mid fragrant zephyrs of the spring l^eside my loving 

Queen. 

Alas! how little then thought we that we would ever part 

Till death should come with icy hand and still each beat- 
ing heart. 

How little then thought she or I the hands then clasped 
so warm. 

In youthful love would ever be another's magic charm. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 171 

But fate! oh, horrid, cruel thing! soon drifted us apart, 

And soon the postman failed to bring the message from 
each heart. 

"Twas then her hand was fondly sought and won by some- 
one's love 

That could not hold her here when caught, and she is now 
above. 

And now I often see those eyes as they look down so blue. 
And almost hear those long-drawn sighs and heart-beats 

pure and true. 
But now that she has passed beyond the line of mortal 

dread. 
I would not ask the church-yard tomb to give me back 

my dead. 

I would not call my Lottie back from that immortal shore 
In mortal clay to once more live our happy days all o'er. 
We lived them once and live them still, tho' she's a spirit 

now, 
I feel that some day there we will renew our loving vow. 

Those dear old days that are not dead, return to me so oft, 
When those sweet words of love were said with hands 

together, soft. 
I often see with mem'ry's eye that sweet smile once again, 
And feel that presence closely by, and that soft touch 

as then. 



WILLIE'S DREAM. 



'I had such a beautiful dream last night, 

A dream I shall never forget; 
Such beautiful angels beamed into my sight. 

Their faces are haunting me yet. 

The one in the center I thought that I knew. 

She called me her own Willie dear; 
She kissed and caressed me as mother used to 

When she was so sickly down here. 

But her cheeks were fair and my mother's were pale. 
Her hands were so strong — mother's weak; 



172 DR. T. WTLKTXS' POEMS. 

Oh, do they in heaven grow rugged and hale, 
And are they permitted to speak? 

She came down Ijeside me, took hold of my hand, 

And led me away to a place 
With flowers surrounded, so fragrant and grand, 

Their sweetness time cannot efface. 

She called it their mansion in soul-land above, 
And said that she built it with deeds; 

Its l)rightness and beauty, the outgrowth of love, 
The flowers were kindnesses' seeds. 

She said she was waiting for sister and me. 
And working to keep our souls pure. 

For soon in the future must each become free 
And go on our spiritual tour. 

It may be but dreaming, but somehow I feel 
That that was my mother's own face, 

And unto my spirit she wished to reveal 
Her spirit, her home and its place. 

I know she is living and loving me still. 
Because she was good, true and kind; 

And life is eternal and time does not kill 
The love of a dear mother mind. 



ADVICE FROM MY FATHER IX SOL L-LAND. 



(Written in 1875.) 

AVho shirks a duty, fearing pain, 

Or shrinks before a foe 
When he is right, he will obtain 

But little here below. 

Who seeks to stab, unstabbed should pause 

And on the act reflect, 
And never stab without a cause, 

A cause he should protect. 

The coward's deed, who in the dark 
Stabs with death-intent 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 173 

Makes plainly 'cross his soul a mark 
Indelibly indent. 

The meanest act of humankind 

(Though oft suspense is hard). 
Will, rebounding, sometime find 

To whom to bring reward. 

Why, then, not let the law take course 

In Nature's highest courts. 
Where love is law, and right is force, 

And truth the right reports.. 



My son, don't be uneasy; don't weary waiting so 

For faithfully we're working to make things rightly go. 

The grass grows in the meadow and the leaves upon the 

trees ; 
But all things in unfolding must do so by degrees. 

That which rapid changes, like magic upward springs, 
Those which bloom explosive are only subtle things. 
Then wait! await our motion, while in union we must 

work. 
And your labors shall be fruitful; only wait and do not 

shirk. 

Only labor as we bid you, is the answer to your prayer. 
For the spirit friends will aid you in the work that they 

prepare. 
So receive our inspiration and give it out again! 
Press forward in the battle for the rights of fellowmen. 
Unfurl the grand old banner; its struggling folds release, 
And have this stamped upon it: "Truth, Justice, Love 

and Peace." 
Go forth and lead the phalanx to the summit of the hill, 
And wave it o'er the nation till every heart is still. 
Till every soul in sadness, in anger and in woe, 
In sweetest peace can slumber without the fear of foe. 



A den of thieves may honest be. 
And true, tenacious brothers. 

And still indulge in robbery 
Outside, among all others. 



174 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

IF I WERE ONLY SATAN. 



If I were only Satan and I had my hell repaired, 

I'd come for all oppressors who from brimstone had been 

spared. 
I would melt the callous conscience of each hoggish man 

of earth, 
And the human beast would languish in my very hottest 

berth. 

If I were only Satan, do you know what I would do? 
I'd stand upon the Universe and claim the Devil's due. 
I'd make the millionaires of earth in humbleness to bow 
Unto the men whom they have robbed, and make amends 
right now. 

If I were only Satan for a century or more, 
I would get some satisfaction that would tickle to the core. 
I would decorate my palace to the fullness of my mind, 
With the sparkling little jewels, and the gold that's left 
behind. 

If I were only Satan, I would loiter at the gate, 

With a woe-begone expression and a contribution plate, 

And I'd ask a small percentage for safekeeping for the 

throng, 
All their diamonds and their morals that they could not 

take along. 

If I were only Satan, I would venture to explore 

All the regions of St. Peter for discarded things in store; 

For the useless things once hoarded through a selfish little 

pride. 
That were burdens to the spirits and were sadly laid aside. 

If I were only Satan and could have his mighty pull, 

I would fill each nook and corner of my roasting-places 
full, 

With the people who are stealing from the starving broth- 
ers here, 

And I'd have my imps all dancing in the merriest of cheer. 

If I were only Satan and accredited the same, 
With the progress and inventions of the earth, I'd take 
the blame. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 175 

And give thanks unto the churches for old superstition's 
scheme, 

Which has ever made him honored with a power all su- 
preme. 

If I were only Satan, I should be so mighty proud, 
To be a mighty leader of the one successful crowd, 
Of the men who gained the battles of the earth in earth- 
ly things, 
O'er the people who were ever in the act of sprouting 
wings. 

If I were only Satan, with his cunning and renown, 

I would make some more tornadoes that would tear the 

churches down, 
And I'd have the stones all gathered and built into one 

large home, 
For the poor, the weak, the needy, who now shelterless 

must roam. 

If I were only Satan, with this earth once all my own, 
I would make the well-fed hungry and then throw to them 

a stone. 
I would feed the starving masses from the cupboards that 

are full. 
If I were only Satan and had Satan's mighty pull. 



THAT LITTLE BABY HAND. 



(Dedicated to Mammas and Grandmas.) 

All the world seems filled with splendor and the sun is 

brighter far. 
And the heavens thrice illumined by each scintillating 

star; 
Aye! the very air around me seems enchantingly divine. 
As i sit in twilight singing, with that baby hand in mine. 

As i Sit in twilight singing and my soul is lost in dream, 
I live over all the pleasures and the joys once more su- 
preme. 
And I feel that I should never in this mortal life decline, 
Could I ever and forever hold that little hand in mine. 



176 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

I can sense the soul behind it and within it as one pure; 
As a soul so true, untainted, I would have its strength en- 
dure. 
'Tis the angel in the human, and it makes my spirit shine, 
To sit in twilight singing, with that little hand in mine. 

I have risen to the zenith, to the highest point in life; 
I have been a loving mother; I have been a faithful wife; 
But the height of real being is above the human shrine. 
And I sense it in the twilight, with that little hand in 
mine. 

All the high and holy angels love that little baby smile; 
And the cuteness of unfoldment, with that cupid-like 

profile, 
Sheds its perfect sweetness o'er me, with a halo so benign. 
As I sit in twilight singing, with that little hand in mine. 



TO MINNIE — NEWLY WED. 



Oh, do not be discouraged when your biscuits do not 

"raise," 
For a sweetly-tempered "hubbie" will but speak in highest 

praise. 
And in household duties failures will with older ones 

occur. 
And a pleasant young companion will just smile and not 

demur. 

We had biscuits here for supper that would melt upon 

your tongue. 
Just such biscuits as you "oughter" have been taught to 

make when "young." 
Now, to make your biscuits lighter, I have heard your 

mamma say, 
You must make them when your temper by a kiss is 

brushed away; 

You must either sing or whistle, and of course should wear 

a smile 
After only being married such a very little while. 
Stir in your baking-powder with your flour while 'tis dry. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 177 

And your biscuits, shortened, kneaded, will appease both 
tongue and eye. 

Just remember, in your cooking much of future pleasures 

are 
Man's affections — through his stomach — are not always 

hard to mar, 
And the home with heavy biscuits, while all other things 

agree, 
Is to manhood not exactly what 'tis oft "cracked up to be" 



THE TALE OF A SHIRT. 



I have served a stylish master and have been to him a 

friend, 
But the best association must in time come to an end. 
While my threads were new and stronger and were ironed 

to a shine, 
I was chosen for the parties by that rich young master 

mine. 

If, returning from the laundry, I'd a wrinkle or a spot, 
I'll assure you that my master waxed around there very 

hot. 
And he cast me in the closet with a cuss-word and a blow, 
And with bitter words for some-one to the laundry I would 

go. 

But the woes of life are never single-handed you must 

know, 
ind my master learned a lesson from another's tale of 

woe; 
He had taken me to parties where I knew it wasn't right. 
And spilled beer upon my bosom till I looked just like a 

fright. 

Ah! he stained me till my whiteness grew as dull as com- 
mon lead. 
Like the skin of my dear master, as 'twill be when he is 

dead. 
Yes, he stained me, then he cast me in the closet here for 
good, 



178 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But the truth about the staining will some day be under- 
stood. 

I'm too good yet for the rag-man, and I still much would 

endure, 
If somebody would but give me to some fellow who is 

poor, 
And I'll bet he wouldn't stain me as my rich young master 

did, 
Till I feel that it were better had I been forever hid. 

Had we garments any union to protect us from the stain 

That our masters put upon us we would never need com- 
plain. 

Were each character we cover ever clean and pure and 
bright, 

Wg would have less stain to spot us and would treat our 
masters right. 

Had we souls we oft would shudder at the fearful crimen 
we see, 

'Neath the mantles of the classes called "the best human- 
ity." 

Had we eyes to see and language to express what we 
behold. 

We might make the world much better with the tales we 
could unfold. 



There should be no people starving in a land where plenty 
grows. 

There should be no empty cupboards and no empty-hand- 
ed woes, 

Where the coffers of a brother are expanded with his gold; 

There should be good places builded for the helpless and 
the old. 



Previous to this life on earth 
We have no record of a birth; 

But still we feel we were. 
We feel it rise up from within 
And tell us we have always been 

In evolution's whir. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



179 



IS CARLO IN HEAVEN? 




Is my dog in heaven? If not 

then to die 
Is nothing but ceasing for Carlo 

and I. 
Is heaven condition or place for 

the good? 
Then Carlo will enter if right 

understood. 

Friends may desert us at pover- 
ty's door, 
But Carlo will serve us, no mat- 
ter how poor; 
r^Kx^jr^ Then, whatever heaven is fash- 

loned to be. 
Without my old Carlo 'tis nothing to me. 

They say there are flowers and rivers and trees. 
And everything lovely our nature to please, 
Up in heaven; but still, if there is no room 
For Carlo, just let me remain in the tomb. 

They swing from the gallows bad men by the score,' 
Who said they repented — they needed no more — 
Were sent up to heaven without other change. 
Their fingers still bloody with crime; and 'tis strange 
My Carlo and babies unpardoned should go, 
With lives that are spotless, to regions below. 

Through woodlawn and meadow with Carlo to roam; 
Through wood lawn and meadow with Carlo to roam; 
Oh, Give me of Nature the good and the true, 
A heaven of justice, where each has hiri due, 
Or let there be nothing to look for bai: gloom, 
And life have an end at the door jf the tomb. 

Give me a land where companions of earth- - 
Companions are still, or let me have birth 
As naught but a worm, to crawl in tlie g"0uud 
An aimless no-ientity, 'round and around. 



180 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

CARLO'S LECTURE. 



Come ye hither, faithful comrades, let's discuss things for 
a spell. 

Let us see if we're entitled to a heaven or a hell; 

I have heard men speak with wisdom of a Great Eternal 
whole. 

That surrounds and guides all beings through the chan- 
nel of the soul. 

But who paused to pass our species as without a soul to 
save, 

And would give us not a future out beyond the earthly 
grave. 

While they claim that naught created e'er is lost in Na- 
ture's law. 

Yet with wisdom and assumption they the fine conclusion 
draw. 

That a dog can have no future, just because he is a dog, 

And among the beings soulless they omit the human hog; 

So let's see about this future and the ones who stand 
above 

In the traits that make all beings fit for any father's love. 

We may often take to growling, we may snarl and growl 

and bite. 
But our "wise and soulful" masters also do it — must be 

right. 
We don't loaf around the brothels with our stomachs full 

of "booze," 
And we cotildn't chew tobacco — couldn't smoke it should 

we choose. 
We could never use profanity, could never tell a lie, 
Hence, we have no soul immortal and no intellect so 

high. 

We can fight and quarrel lovely, as our masters do some- 
time. 

And we surely ought to do so, for to them it seems sub- 
lime. 

We have passion, greed, affection, and can learn what we 
are taught; 

We are faithful to our masters and can almost read their 
thought; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 181 

We can trace them by their footsteps often trackless on 

the ground, 
Yet they say there is no spirit in the animal yet found. 

Yet, in their evolving wisdom and their scientific search, 
They have found they pass up through us ere they reach 

their present perch. 
They could not have been a human in this "Great Eternal 

Whole." 
If they handn't evoluted through our species, form and 

soul; 
They would not have had the wisdom and the "dogged 

wiir^ to do. 
If they had no doggish faculties to scent out and pursue. 

Now, my comrades, let's be faithful, though we're kicked 

and poorly fed. 
For our masters will be angels when we dogs are dumb 

and dead; 
Let us all be patient servants, and though suffering, not 

whine. 
In the bright and golden sometime we may all have souls 

divine, 
For if masters coarse and brutal, can inherit future bliss, 
'Tis but just that we, too, find it in a "fairer land" than 

this. 

Let us lick the hand that smites us, and be honest, kind 

and true; 
If our masters find a heaven we can surely find it too. 
No, we cannot build fine churches and pretend that we 

are pure, 
But we can be true and faithful, and their "soulful kicks" 

endure. 
For it seems to be just human and the human spirit's 

way. 
And we all shall once be human and have souls divine 

some day. 

We must follow them to heaven, and if they are welcomed 
there, . . . ' 

We must smile up at St. Peter, and put on a Christian 
air; 

We must hand in our own records with our faces long 
drawn out; 



182 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

We must lick God's hand and caper till we conquer every 

doubt, 
Then perhaps the gates will open and our masters we can 

love, 
In the land that is eternal, in the home in heaven above. 



MY DEAR DOG "JOE. 



This poem is dedicated to a New Jersey lady whose pet 
dog ("Joe") died a short time previous to the reception 
of the poem by the author. He was an intelligent ani- 
mal and lived to be quite old. One of his well-known 
peculiarities was when his owner placed his dish of food 
before him, he would not touch it until she slapped him 
good and hard. His portrait is with the following poem. 

I have reared no child to love me; 
I have won no world-wide fame, 
But the sky is clear above me 

And the world is mine the same. 
But oh, I am so weary, and this world does seem so dreary 
Without my dear dog "Joe." 

I have lived my life so quiet 

On this dear old Jersey shore, 
And I shared with "Joe" my diet. 

And my home, but all is o'er; 
And oh, I am so weary and the world is cold and dreary 

Without my dear dog "Joe." 

I have other loves around me 

Who are kind and good I know, 
But my sorrow seems to drown me 
When I think of poor dead "Joe." 
The world seems blank before me and a sadness lingers 
o'er me 

Without my dear dog "Joe." 

Oh, I wonder if he'll meet me 
When I pass beyond the veil; 

If he should I know he'll greet me 
With the wagging ^f ^' ail. 



DR. T. WILKNS' POEMS. 



183 



I'll rise up then from weeping around the place he's 
sleeping 

And pat my dear dog "Joe." 

Then I'll place his dish before him, 

Filled with dainties and with meats, 
And I'll stroke my fingers o'er him, 
And I'll slap him till he eats. 
In heaven, when I meet him I'll be happy there to greet 
him. 

For he's still my dear dog "Joe." 



♦'JOE'S" SERMON. 




"JOE." 
And no matter what the 



"There Are No Dogs in Heaven," 

I will make my present theme, 
"No animals are wanted at the 

throne of the Supreme." 
Is believed by many mortals who 

assume the form of man. 
But who still remain in spirit 

much below us in the plan. 
I should rather take my chances 

with old Justice as a dog. 
Than a cruel, savage master or 

a selfish human hog, 
But I firmly think in Nature, 

that each being has his place, 
species, or the color, or the race. 



If not as such intended we would never dogs have been; 
If Eternal Nature made us it was surely not a sin. 
For the same Eternal Nature made our masters of the clay, 
And the most marked way we differ is, they stand another 

way. 
They can scheme and plan great mansions on the earth for 

very show; 
They can picture their own heaven in the future thus and so; 
They can roll their eyeballs upward and send forth their 

soiilfiil tune, 



184 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

While we send up our petitions to the Master in the moon. 

If there is a great All-Wise One who presides o'er all the 
earth, 

We can neither ever fool Him in regard to proper worth, 

And though rich with gold and knowledge, when his judg- 
ment he must face, 

Man will find, with dogs in Nature, that each specie has its 
place. 

If a Christian beats his horses or is cruel to his dog. 

It will stay with him eternal as a gloomy spirit fog. 

He has claim to mighty wisdom, great unfoldment of the 
mind, 

But is often false and brutal when his dog is true and kind. 

So upon the base of morals and of faithfulness and love, 
Our great masters have not risen in unfoldment far above, 
And if we, with only "instinct," are to loiter here behind, 
We shall always think Jehovah is but human and unkind. 
Let us gather in the moonlight and send up a mighty bay 
For admission into heaven when our forms return to clay, 
And put on our longest faces and in meekness shed a tear, 
And if man gets into heaven we may also there appear. 

We can hardly do the thinking that our masters have to do. 
And we cannot ask the favors of a God we never knew, 
But I know there must be justice in the great Eternity, 
For the lower and the higher; just because there ought to be. 
If all life is based on spirit as a part of One Grand Whole, 
And the universe of matter should possess Eternal Soul, 
Each shall share in Nature's forces just his little proper 

place. 
Whether dogs or human beings filled with piety and grace. 

Let them gain their great possessions and hoard up the shin- 
ing gold; 

But it cannot bring back youth-time with its joys, when they 
are old. 

Let them put on robes and jewels and fine linen here below. 

But they each must wear the garments that will fit where'er 
they go. 

Now, you ask me how I know it, where I got such wondrous 
lore? 

And I answer with my master, thus: "When I was here be- 
fore." 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



185 



I obtain it from the thought-world, from the universe of 

thought; 
From the depth of all past ages I the inspiration caught. 

I don't think the common Christian cares so much for that 

old tale 
As he used to ere the coming of the Spiritualistic gale, 
But while mankind is advancing it does seem so mighty 

, queer 
That they make themselves a heaven, while their pets must 
disappear. 



REX, THE KNOWING SPANIEL, PRAYS. 




'^^^'^I^IK^^ Now, O Nature! in thy Wisdom 
thou hast made us as we are; 

Thou hast made the earth and 
sunlight and the moon and 
little star; 

So, at least man tells us, and in 
mind he ought to know. 

For he lays claim to all the 
earth and knowledge here be- 
low. 

Hast thou not, oh, Holy Master, 
near thy throne a kennel 
bright. 

Where we poor dogs can gather 
near thy left hand or thy right? 

Just to watch and love our masters and be faithful, kind and 

true, 
And please pardon and receive them, for they know not what 

they do. 
When they beat us they were angry, and their savageryi 

arose; 
Please forgive them and have mercy; kindly lighten all their 

woes. 
They will sometime, when arisen to the height where they 

can see. 
Know that wisdom, love and kindness overcome all cruelty. 



REX. 



186 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

That J can but wish to follow her wherever she may roam, 
And I pray you, Holy Master, let me linger near her home. 
Let my gentle foster mother, and good master take me too, 
When they cross the shining river, or I'll swim and then 

pursue; 
For they love me in the spirit and I love them in my heart, 
And it surely would be cruel to compel us e'er to part. 
Oft she pats me and she pets me, and she calls me her "good 

boy," 
And she fills my great big dog soul so completely full of joy, 
I was brought up on a bottle by a lady good and kind. 
And if she should go to heaven and leave me, her pet, be- 
hind, 
I do not think that heaven would a place of pleasure be, 
For my human mother darling, and no room up there for me. 
If it please Thee, blessed Master, I should like to have my 

place 
In a kennel near their mansion, where I oft may see each 

face. 
Let me romp and play and slumber in the sunlight of their 

souls 
While the universe revolving and evolving onward rolls. 
Let me lick the hand that strokes me with a fond and loving 

touch ; 
Let me be with them forever if I do not ask too much, 
And I'll strive to grow up higher than the rest of my own 

kind ; 
Try to store the gems of knowledge in my active little mind. 
I will promise to be faithful and as moral as I can; 
I will drink no liquid poison and be soberer than man; 
I will do no "profane swearing;" I will neither smoke nor 

chew, 
If Thou wilt, O God, permit me with my master to go 

through. 

He will vouch for me in heaven, and no trouble will I be; 

Be no bother to the angels and no bother unto Thee. 

I'll be true, and good, and honest, and what Christian could 

be more? 
I will be for dear St. Peter a good watch-dog at the door. 

Yes, I know that he will need me, for he must be growing 
old. 



DR. T. WILKINS* POEMS. 187 

And he'll want my scenting power to keep wolves without 

the fold. 
I can growl at every liar, every greedy, selfish hog, 
And be of use to Peter when he needs a faithful dog. 

I am glad I can be useful in this world of hum and whirr. 
For I feel that I'm progressing from the level of the cur. 
And I want to be recorded as a Spaniel, full and high. 
Right beside my foster mother and my master when I die. 

Blessed Master, take my spirit when my time comes to de- 
part, 

Though I am an humble Spaniel I am good within my heart ; 

Just a dog in looks and species, and in my spirit dog, but 
then, 

I want my foster mother and my master, too. Amen! 



DEATH HAS LOST ITS STING. 



O Death, thou dread of all the past, 
Though guest of all mankind at last. 
We know thy tread and stand aghast; 
But fear thee not. 

We have our loves, and know of thee; 
We dread to leave, yet would be free 
To climb the scale of eternity 

Through thee, O Death! 

We dread not pain, nor strife, nor woe; 
We fear not toil, nor dread to go, 
But would not leave our friend below 
To thee, O Death! 

We know no Christ, we know no creed. 
Except through Nature's laws; but need 
To meet a mother thou hast freed 
From Earth, O Death! 



The happy heart sings while the sad heart weeps; 
But perfect love clings while the body sleeps. 



188 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER. 



Mother passed to her spirit home from Bedford, Iowa, 
August 17, 1895, at the age of 73 years, 11 months and 
12 days. She was preceded by my father by 21 years. 
Both were old, staunch Spiritualists, and never afraid to 
answer to roll-call in the philosophy. Mother passed 
away peacefully, and with no perceptible struggle of ago- 
ny. Her mind was fully made up to go — she wished to 
go, and knew whither she would be taken by those who 
had preceded her and had been waiting her approach 
with loving arms outstretched to welcome her to her nevv 
home — made by her untiring mother-life and suffering, 
and the loving sacrifices made for her own children. She 
realized that they waited her coming, and she must have 
been delighted to depart from that worn-out old body, 
and with that happy family of spirit-born loved ones, and 
those of earthly unfoldment, take her flight out there so 
free and unhindered. 

Peace to our mother, whose life was all given 

To toiling and making for loved ones a heaven; 

For loved ones who bless her, and love that dear face 

The cold earth now covers — that naught can replace. 

Peace to that spirit now freed from the clay; 

Peace to her body — to rest laid away. 

We bless her — we love her no less over there 

Than here, and will treasure that old vacant chair; 

Those bed-spreads and tidies, those head-rests she gave, 

Will be mother's whispers — not stilled by the grave. 



Lives there a man with head so hot 
He hates the source from which he got 
His life, his all, and who loves not? 
That man is but a human blot. 



The gold we find in humankind 

Is never unalloyed; 
But that ne'er makes the total find 

Quite wholly unenjoyed. 



DR. T. WILINS' POEMS. 189 

♦'UNCLE DOC'S LITTLE MAN." 



Yes, I go to see the babies — little Frances and Gertrude, 
And the dear, dear little Katharine, when I'm in going 

mood, 
And they each produce within me a perceptive sense of joy. 
And I love them — but — oh, angels! I DO want my Bobbie 

boy! 

I can sit and watch and love them, as they look at me and 

smile; 
I can notice their unfoldments and their smartness for 

awhile, 
Till my eyes with tears are flooded and my heart is bowed 

in woe; 
Until my cup of sorrow is o'erflowing, then I go. 

In my loneliness I wander to the park across the street. 
And I try to soothe my longing with the children there I 

meet. 
But a large obstruction rises in my throat whene'er I 

speak. 
And I find no love responsive in the faces that I seek. 

Ah! the very water haunts me, where we "plunked" so 

many stones. 
And the very grass now taunts me, and the birds with their 

sweet tones 
Seem to chill me as I wander where we wandered, oh, so 

oft. 
For I still can see sweet Bobbie, and can hear his voice, 

so soft. 

If this loneliness and sadness, all this aimlessness in me. 
Are unfoldments of the spirit, then I soon will perfect be. 
And sweet Bobbie will have aided the Divinely ordered 

plan, 
And shall live forever near me, as his "Uncle's Little 

Man." 

God bless that smile forever! It has made my spirit new; 
Though on earth we may be parted, that sweet face is e'er 

in view. 
He's my angel — not my mortal — tho' I would to God 

'twere so; 



190 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But my happiness too perfect would appear down here 
below. 

It wrong would be on earth for one to have so much of 

bliss, 
While all around his fellows starve for one pure baby kiss. 
It would be wrong to drink it all and leave no nectar there 
For other souls who thirst so long for love so pure and 

rare. 

Though deep despair environ me and dark clouds hover 

o'er, 
I must be large, unselfish now, or on the other shore 
I shall be dwarfed, be held in thrall. I must arise and 

grow 
Or his pure soul, released, advanced, will not my spirit 

know. 



SOUL CULTURE. 



As we can never grow but worthless tares and weeds 

Unless we truly know we have the proper seeds 

Each one should have a window to let the sunlight 

through; 
Each soul should have a mirror for retrospective view. 

As light precludes the darkness and stays impending 

gloom, 
A view of one's own selfhood improves the coming bloom. 
The soul that looks the brightest in the sunlight of the 

day 
Is oft in richness lightest — the nonproductive clay. 

The butterfly of beauty evolves from homely worm; 
The hull that is the coarsest oft holds the finest germ. 
Then give us all the sunlight, the rain, the night, the dew. 
The soil, the wisest methods, and seeds for culture true. 



A muddy road and a clouded mind 
Are hindrances to all mankind. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 191 

DECORATION DAY. 



There is such a wave of sadness comes with Decoration 

Day, 
When the land is bowed in sorrow o'er the soldiers passed 

away. 
All the Nation pays them homage for the honors that they 

won, 
In the battle for their country, when their earthly work 

is done. 

There is such a tone of solemn and of mournful quiet 

when, 
At the graves each year in union, this great Nation calls 

again. 
Just to place the loving tokens of the hearts forever warm 
With devotion for those heroes, o'er each dear dissolving 

form. 

Let the Nation pause to honor those who fought for free- 
dom's sake; 
Let it bow before its saviors who in soul-land must awake 
And be happy o'er the vision of this great Memorial Day, 
As they watch their friends lay flowers o'er the dumb, 
decaying clay. 

'Tis a solemn thing to ponder o'er the loss of those we 

love; 
Ah! that feeling of deep sorrow is so hard to rise above. 
But when Nature in her labors calls a spirit from the 

earth 
It is only for advancement, for that spirit's higher birth. 

As the Nation bows in sorrow o'er its dear old hero-dead, 
And the earth seems fairly trembling with the solemn, 

marching tread 
Of the time-worn, whitened vet'rans who in death are 

thinning out. 
Those old comrades up in soul-land are still loyal an.d 

devout. 

Here they fought for right and justice, ere the spirit 
passed away, 



192 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

As they saw it from the standpoint and conditions of the 

day, 
And they linked the land together through a leaden hail 

and fire, 
As a duty to their country, ere their spirits passed up 

higher. 

We cover their graves with flowers and flags as tokens of 

love, 
And fill the day with devotion and honor to those gone 

above, 
While doubtless up there in spirit where justice and love 

rule the day, 
They are greeting and forgiving, both the men in blue 

and grey. 



EQUAL AT THE GRAVE. 



As we near the ancient stairway that leads down into the 

grave. 
There is need to hold our forces for the last receding 

wave, 
But we need descend the mountains that we worked so 

hard to climb, 
As our fathers and our mothers had to do in course of 

time. 

We may toil, perspire and grumble, and be manly, honest, 

brave. 
But like others who preceded, we are gliding toward the 

grave. 
'Tis no matter how we dread it, there is something quite 

sublime 
In the thought that all will travel o'er the same road in 

due time. 

Men may rise to higher stations or go on through life as 

knaves. 
And the blessed law of Nature makes them equal at their 

graves. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 193 

One may be a shining Christian and another steeped in 

crime, 
And the grave will make them equal in the coming courr e 

of time. 

It is only idle thinking, or opinion's useless wave, 

To conceive of class distinction in a sphere beyond the 

grave. 
We must mingle in the spirit in our own true sphere and 

clime, 
And the classes of the masses will disintegrate in time. 

There will always be the doubters and believers that will 

rave. 
But opinions never alter the true state beyond the grave. 
Just the ashes of cremation or the grave-decaying slime, 
And a spirit, free and fleeing, is the doom of each in time. 

As we near the ancient stairway to a dry or wat'ry grave, 
Or the furnace of cremation, it is manly to be brave; 
It is wise to be observing in old age or in the prime, 
Whether rich or wise or handsome we must all decay in 
time. 



DEATH AND SADNESS. 



We may name it just transition, there is little in the 

name, 
But there comes with it a shudder, for the parting is the 

same. 
Do we love them as we see them and have seen them many 

years? 
Do we miss them when the body at transition disappears? 

Whether mother, father, sister or a brother or a friend. 
Or a loving loved companion, when the earth-career must 

end, 
There's a sadness, there's an aching, and a time of solemn 

thought; 
There must come a wave of sadness though we look at 

Death as naught. 



194 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

BIBLICAL *'IFS." 



If God Made Eve from Adam's rib while he was hypno- 
tized, 

Breathed in her lungs the breath of life and stood her up 
full-sized 

Beside him, then aroused her lord, why can't that God 
again 

Create a man and woman so and save the bearing pain? 

Is man, the earthly king, so weak no anguish he can bear 

Without an anaesthetic, while his mate must bear her 
share? 

If God was first and was not made, and man is part of 
God, 

Then man was always as he is, except the mortal clod. 

If man, as God, did not begin, then will he never pause; 

Nor does old Adam's fall in sin disturb Dame Nature's 
laws. 

But why should God disheartened be with changes in 
designs 

His children make, when it is He who through their spir- 
its shines? 

If God made every living thing — made man of common 

mud. 
And called the job a splendid one, then, why that awful 

flood? 
If good it was at first, why drown and start it all anew? 
A good mechanic plans his work and works his plannings, 

too. 
If God, at first, discerned the end, why did he not then 

know 
Enough to make the whole thing right, and let it stand 

just so? 



The man who makes in life no foes 
Amounts to little; comes and goes. 
The man who struggles up from birth 
But fills his niche upon the earth; 
But he who works for fellowman 
Is built upon the Divine Plan. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 195 

OLD BLACK JOE IN SORROW. 



Hold heah, now, mah dear ol' honey, whut make yo' han' 

so col'? 
I guess you's gittin' feeble like, along wid gittin' ol'. 
You's been a deah companion an' I hates to hab you go, 
But I know de Lawd will take you up to hebbin, an' I 

know 
De angels all will welcome dat ar blessed soul ob yourn, 
While yo' pa'dner, bowed in sorrow, will be left to weep 

an' mourn. 

You's stuck to me through thick an' thin, an' mos' de time 

through thin, 
An' I doan believe yo' conscience hit has eber knowed a 

sin. 
Ner I doan' believe a woman, wheddeh white, er brown, er 

black. 
Could hab bin a better muddah to her chillun, fer a fac'. 
An' de nabors allers knowed you when dey wanted a 

good friend, 
Fer dey knowed when you had plenty you was willin' fer 

to lend. 

But yo' eyes hab lost der lustah, an' yo' bones am stickin' 

through. 
An' dar's no mo' labor heah fer dem han's ob yourn to 

do; 
-But I specs yo's mighty tickled fer to lay yo' body down, 
When hit's got so weak an' rattly from de toe-nails to de 

crown. 
An' I know dat ol' St. Petah will jes' fling dat do' clar back 
An' de angels will invite you to jes' take de seat you lak. 

Den dey'll hang aroun' yo' sperit lak de bees aroun' de 

queen, 
'Cause you's been de bestest muddah dat de angels eber 

seen; 
An' de Savior will be waitin' wid de book ob jedgment 

dar. 
An' he'll gib you all de credit dat you's earned before dat 

bar. 
An' he'll seat you on de cushion whar yo' bones '11 not go 

through, 



196 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

'Cause you's bin so good a muddah, an' companion kind 
an' true. 

Tell de angels Joe am comin' an' not very far behind, 
Fer or age an' time togeddah am a pullin' down de blind, 
An' I feel de shivers creepin' over my ol' body now, 
An' de skin am pullin' tightah roun' dis po' ol' wrinkle 1 

brow. 
Tell 'em, Susan, won't you, honey? an' make haste to fix 

our home, 
Fer dis fohm am gittin' weaker, an' I haint got long to 

roam. 

> ^ e » > — — ^— 

THE MISER'S DOOM. 



Oh, the mustard-seed old conscience that knows naught 

but pinch and grind. 
In the future world of progress will be left away behind. 
While all others are advancing toward the life that they 

should live, 
This old fossil by King Justice will be rattled through a 

sieve. 

Aye, the being of this planet who so little having grown 
That he cannot see a pleasure or a comfort not his own; 
That with all his lucky dealings and accumulating gold 
He has not a cent for helping the decrepit and the old. 

He, the miser, who has hoarded up his millions from the 
poor. 

And is using all his powers other millions to procure, 

Will but grovel long in darkness, near his hoarded treas- 
ure here. 

While he should be ever rising toward the higher, brighter 
sphere. 

Out in soul-land there are misers who no doubt would 

like some light. 
But the walls that they have builded keep their selfish 

souls from sight. 
And imprisoned there within them they must stay till 

they aspire 
To be noble, free, unselfish, then will Justice lift them 

higher. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 197 

SOME OF OUR NEEDS. 



We need friendship, we need kindness, 
As along Life's path we go; 

We need light to banish blindness; 
We need weal to banish woe. 

We need love to build up spirit, 
And to brace us for the fray; 

We need will to hold us near it 
While we face our toil each day. 

We oft need a stronger brother. 
Just to lean on for awhile; 

We oft need a blessed mother. 
And her sweet, angelic smile. 

We oft need the kick and prodding 

Of a pessimistic foe, 
Just to keep an active plodding 

On the route that we should go. 

We oft need the care and sorrow 
Of the world poured in our ear, 

To advance us on the morrow, 
When our own woes disappear. 

Aye! we need each bitter trial. 
In this world of do and dare; 

And we need to drain the vial 
Of soul-darkness and despair. 

We grow larger with our action 

All unselfishly inborn. 
And must gain more satisfaction 

When of hate and envy shorn. 

We grow greater or grow smaller 

As our spirit is inclined; 
We grow shorter or grow taller 

As we hold ourselves in mind. 

We grow younger as we're aging. 
With the pleasant smiles we wear; 

If we kindly cease men's raging. 
We sow kindness everywhere. 



198 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

IN THE PRISON CELL. 



(Respectfully dedicated to a brother in prison.) 

Let me be a comfort to the poor and rich as well; 
To the poor despondent convict in a dismal prison cell. 
Let me give each one upliftment as I journey on my way; 
Let me make a pleasant future by my kindnesses to-day. 

There are many souls to comfort 'neath the heaven's 

shining stars; 
Many out in open freedom; some behind the prison bars. 
Whether guilty, whether guiltless of a crime against the 

law, 
Let me lift each one in spirit up above each earthly flaw. 

Let me make the burdens lighter with my song of higher 

things; 
Let me help him hear the rustle of his guardian angel's 

wings; 
Let me touch his very conscience; let me rest his soul a 

spell; 
Let me make for him a heaven even in the prison cell. 

Let me ever call him "brother;" let me brush the clouds 

away. 
And convince him out beyond there will appear a brighter 

day; 
Let me shed his tears of sorrow; let me all his sadness 

quell; 
Let me sweetly break the silence of that gloomy prison 

cell. 

Let me give his lonely spirit all the cheer it can receive, 
While 'tis bowed in mental anguish; let me with my 

brother grieve; 
Hopes all blasted; aspirations, aims, all vanished into air; 
Let me reach him and give courage that his burdens he 

may bear. 

Let me reach all downcast brothers; let me help them to 

the light; 
Let me hold their drooping eyelids open to the true and 

right; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMb. 199 

Let me have no selfish motive in my act and word and 

thought; 
Let me be my brother's brother, as my spirit says I 

ought. 



LET'S LOVE HIM. 



When we find a brother saddened by a cruel blow of fate, 
Who has been too good to prosper and has lost a loving 

mate, 
Let us put our arms around him in true sympathetic 

m, 
And just hug him up close to us, and express our feelings 

warm. 

Let us give him all the sweetness we can press into his 

soul; 
Let us pour into his spirit from our overflowing bowl. 
All the pure, refined life-essence we possess, to lift and 

cheer; 
He's our noble-hearted brother and his spirit's very dear. 

Let us buoy him up a little, just to hold him while on 

earth, 
In position of upliftment and to know he yet has worth; 
Let us love him as each other with the fullness of our 

hearts, 
And be ready to "God-speed" him when for soul-land he 

departs. 

If we love him in the spirit, then in actions let us be. 

As we feel down deep within us, and express it full and 

free. 
He has had some bitter sorrows and reverses, in the past, 
But he has a soul within him and let's love it to the last. 



Judge not, lest ye should also judged 
By other's judgment be; 

Look not to others for the good 
KxnftDt as ot.hftrs sep.. 



200 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 



A BACHELOR'S REVERIE. 



My soul grows so hungry sometimes for a smile 
A touch of true friendship; yes, once in awhile 
I feel I am starving, and would welcome a hand 
That bore the sweet promise of friendship's demand. 

My heart grows so weary that nothing looks fair. 
With no one to love me, and no one to care 
For all my emotions, now sluggishly grown, 
With no one to touch me and call me her own. 

Mine eyes fill with moisture sometimes when alone. 
And I feel a strange sadness that thrills to the bone. 
For out in the somewhere around or above, 
I feel the sweet presence of someone's pure love. 

Perhaps I may find it ere crossing the line 
Of the mortal, and reach its full sweetness divine; 
But life is eternal, and though I must wait, 
Somewhere she approaches — I sense her — my mate. 

Though weary with waiting my soul can endure 
With patient forbearance, the touch of the pure, 
I know all this hunger and longing I feel 
Is caused by another's like starving appeal. 

Though she be now tethered i someone as wife. 
Some day I shall meet her and join her for life. 
Sometime in the silence, with love chords in tune. 
Our souls interblended will sweetly commune. 

True soul-love is v^'-'less, and words are so weak, 
It seems the sweet silence is stronger to speak, 
And spirit to spirit in sense-life can be 
Divinely adjusted, when finally free. 

I often catch glimpses, when half lost in dream. 
Of someone advancing with eyes all agleam. 
With soul expectation of joys unexpressed, 
With hope's inspiration of peace and sweet rest. 



DR. T. WILKINS* POEMS. 201 

NEW YEAR'S DREAM. 



I'd like to be a boy again upon a New Year's Eve, 
So many calls I'd like to make, and some I should receive. 
I'd like to wipe out all the past that gives me only grief. 
And blow a horn again, and shout, and get some sweet 
relief. 

I'd like to call upon that girl who looked so sweet to me. 
And have a youthful spell of joy — a spirit full of glee 
I'd like to see that pretty face, those sparkling eyes of 

blue, 
I'd like to touch that hand again, and kiss those dear lips, 

too. 

'Twould be a pleasure fond and deep to climb the castle 

stair 
I builded o'er and o'er again of nothing but the air. 
And swell with pride and hopefulness upon the prospects 

bright. 
That fell to earth and passed from me and left my hopes 

in blight. 

There is a vast expanse of time betwixt that day and this. 
With storms of sorrow and of woe, and compensating bliss. 
But I would fly beyond it all, to grasp that hand once 

more. 
With all the rapture of first love, back in the days of yore. 

I'd like to be a boy again, and I will tell you why: 

I'd like to have a great big piece of mother's pumpkin 

pie; 
I'd like, also, to go and skate upon that little stream. 
And like that dear old moon above, just let my young 

soul gleam. 

Those days have gone — I'm passing on, and though this 

form grows old. 
There still remain upon this plane sweet pleasures to 

unfold. 
The mighty horde that follows me must profit by my stay. 
And so I feel there yet is weal for me along the way. 

If all who live would gain and give, more pleasure and 
less pain; 



202 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

If all would try to help someone the higher heights to 

gain, 
This world would be from paupers free, who hungry now 

must roam, 
And those inclined would always find right here on earth 

a home. 



THE BLUE TIME AND THE BRIGHT TIME. 



When the wind blows back the ashes of a burning dis- 
content, 

And there comes an awful sorrow that one cannot well 
prevent; 

When a darkness settles over us and we are bent with 
woe, 

And the hand of Fate, firm-grasping, will not set free to 
go — 

That is the Blue Time. 

When a friend we love most dearly cuts us cold without 
a cause, 

And our heart-beats lose vibration for each other — near- 
ly pause; 

When our sweet and healthy b"' y, of a sudden passes on. 

When the truest friends have left us and all hope seems 
dead and gone — 

That is the Blue Time. 

When our home, where once there anchored all the sacred 

ties of earth, 
Is abandoned, broken, shattered, and is wrecked of all 

its worth; 
When the very air seems stifling and the sunlight fades 

away; 
When the future seems a horror, and we hate the coming 

day — 

That is the Blue Time. 

But the Blue Time is preceded and is followed by the 
bright; 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS 203 

And the dark and dreary night-time is excluded by the 

light. 
When the shining sunbeams glitter in the crystal morning 

dew; 
When the noon-day sunlight glimmers from the heaven's 

arch of blue — 

That is the Bright Time. 



SOME POINTED DON'TS. 



Don't be too quick to kick someone for doing as they 

please; 
Don't be too quick to take insult, and always rest at ease, 
For someone else is just as apt to be as perfect, too. 
And have as good a reason for the bricks he hurls at you. 

Don't be too badly hurt by aught because it seemed a 

snub; 
Don't be too quick to feel a stab or catch a caustic rub; 
Don't be too stingy with your smiles when life seems 

bright and clear; 
Don't be neglectful of your friends and brothers who need 

cheer. 

Don't be too loud in lauding self, and low in others' praise; 
Don't be too weak in soul and form some sinking one to 

raise; 
Don't skim the milk and drink the cream a brother needs 

to-day; 
Don't eat your fill of all the good and throw the rest away. 

Don't try to own the blooming earth to build a fence 

around; 
Don't hoard away your surplus wealth and be to earth-life 

bound; 
Don't think the world will crown you king o'er all because 

you're rich, 
Don't try to crowd your brother out of his own little 

niche. 

Don't get so high in self-esteem you notice not your 
friends; 



204 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Don't think when you are fortunate good fortune never 

ends; 
Don't think this world was made for you, and you alone 

to use; 
For soon old Death will come and lift you from your 

earthly shoes. 



DON'T DISGRACE THE DEAD. 



You may be as mean as Satan every night and every day, 
You may be a greedy grafter, and be lauded on the way 
You may be a stingy viper; to the earthly friends a dread. 
But in heaven's name, dear brother, don't disgrace our 
sacred dead. 

You may be a crawling lizard, and produce a slimy track, 
You may give your neighbor lashings with your tongue 

behind his back, 
You may bring a cloud of sorrow on each noble human 

head, 
But in heaven's name, dear sister, don't disgrace our 

sacred dead. 

You may be a white-washed rascal, or a sugar-coated 

fraud, 
You may be a foxy human, with the passion of a bawd; 
You may have your many millions, from your dupes of 

commerce bled, 
But in heaven's name, dear brother, don't disgrace our 

sacred dead. 

You may be a human tyrant, and grind people 'neath your 

heel. 
You may be a sordid banker, with a chance to grab and 

steal; 
You may be a brazen image of the hungry hordes unfed, 
But in heaven's name, dear sister, don't disgrace our 

sacred dead. 

You may be a wart of ugliness upon your brother's hand, 
You may be a hog of avarice within this earthly land, 
You may be a human octopus upon a diamond bed. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 205 

But in heaven's name, dear brother, don't disgrace our 
sacred dead. 

You may have your wigs and dresses, your false-faces 

and your lace. 
You may entertain with peep-shows all who come into 

your place; 
You may gain the paltry dollar from the ones you have 

misled, 
But in heaven's name, dear sister, don't disgrace our 

sacred dead. 



PERFECT LOVE. 



I feel just like a plaything in the hands of perfect love. 

And in spirit in the silence am uplifted high above 

The passions and the grossness of the spheres of this old 

earth, 
And am lost in dream-like fancies of the height of my own 
worth. 

When the waves are passing o'er me and my soul is in 

sweet peace; 
When the vibrant floating echoes seem each moment to 

increase; 
When the heart is throbbing, beating with Divinity's 

o'erflow, 
There's a voice of Love that's speaking something calm 

and sweet and low. 

When the trials and the troubles of my nature seem out- 
grown, 

And have ceased to be unto me anything that I can own; 

When the heart-aches that surround me like a closely 
fitting glove, 

Have departed from my being, I am near the THRONE 
OF LOVE. 



Scholastic brains oft shut the door 
Of truth 'twixt the world and real lore. 



206 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMg. 

CHEER FOR THE DEPARTED. 



We must sometime pause from labor and our all-absorbing 

thought, 
To look out upon the future, and to glimpses we have 

caught 
Of a life beyond the mortal, where our friends who pass 

away 
Often tell us in faint whispers, "All will meet some future 

day." 

Oft when life seems bathed in sweetness and our soul its 

zenith finds. 
Swift a cloud spreads out above us and our mortal vision 

blinds; 
Then it is we are reminded of our weakness unto woe. 
Though we know when all is over, light and darkness 

make us grow. 

When there passes from the vision to that higher, brighter 

sphere. 
An old kindred or companion who has been so long so 

near. 
Even tears will fail to fully ease the pent-up throbbing 

heart. 
For though knowing it were better, it were bitter thus to 

part. 

When the spirit and the body can no longer live as one; 
When the soul immortal, yearning, finds its earthly labor 

done. 
It were wise to be transported to a higher plane of life, 
There again in active labor to resume the round of strife. 

It were wise to be uplifted from a worn-out form of earth; 
It were wise to have soul-freedom in a higher form of 

birth, 
And no matter how we miss them from our lonely earth 

abode. 
We should hail the soul's transition,, and give cheer along 

the road. 

As upon the surging ocean, unencumbered by the forms. 
They are drifting quite securely from this life's tempest- 
uous storms. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 207 

All their faults of earthly "nature will in time be gone, 

unknown; 
Will be swept away eternal, when the spirits are full 

grown. 

Let us follow them in silence and in love unto the door. 
And then send along our blessings and good cheer for- 

evermore, 
And assure them in the spirit, of our pleasure unexpressed, 
For their freedom from the bodies they have worn and 

laid to rest. 



I'S ER HUMAN, JIS' ER ROOMIN 



Bar's ah quivah 'roun' my livah an' my nerves begin ter 

jerk, 
An' my laigs am gitin' weakah, so dey fails to do de work, 
An' I knows I's gittin' ol', but de spark am in my soul, 
An' I nebber wuz fum duty known to shirk, shirk, shirk. 

I's er waggin' an' still draggin' out dis weary life below. 
An' I kinder has de feelin' dat my time am comin' sho', 
Fer my jints am gittin' loose an' my noggin haint no use, 
Fer ter help eroun' de fambly any mo', mo', mo'. 

I's er human, jist er roomin' in dis piece of cullud clay, 
I doan know whar I's cum fum, ner when I's gwine erway, 
But I knows dat I's er sperit; de voice say so; I hear it, 
An' I'll be ez white ez enyone some day, day, day. 



When we were boys we had no thought 
Of age and change, that time has brought; 
No thought of sorrows, ills and woe; 
Nor how we came, nor how we go. 



The echo of the sigh comes back and tells us why 

The weal and woe; 
'Tis Nature's laugh and cry, our souls to build and try, 

That we may know. 



208 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

THE BABIES DISCOVERED. 



"Mamma," said Elsie, tip-toeing the while, 

To look where she heard a wee noise, 
While mamma, observing, and with a sweet smile, 

Began to uncover two boys. 

"Mamma, what was it I heard in 'e bed? 

It sound 'ike a baby 'oo know; 
An' once 'oo did tell me, "e angels,' 'oo said, 

'Would bring me a buzzer or so.' " 

Just then a wee hand went up in the air, 

And Elsie discovered the same. 
"E angels have been here!" — then up went a prayer — 

"Oh, angels, pease tell me his name." 

"Just baby," said mamma, "and they brought us two — 

Two little boys, but no name; 
And now, little Elsie, come kiss them, won't you? 

And tell them you're glad that they came." 

"I fank 'oo, dear angel, an' fank 'oo again, 

An' hope 'oo'l make 'ere hair turl. 
An' nex' ime 'oo tum, nex' time, w'y nen 

'Oo bring me a sweet 'ittle dirl." 

Then all of the playthings she brought to the bed 

To show to those wee baby boys. 
"For they are both strangers," sweet Elsie said, 

"An' never saw any such toys." 

She told them she loved them, was glad that they came, 

And kissed them both o'er and o'er. 
And asked the good angels to give each a name, 

"An' tum wis a dirl des once more." 



The highest niche of fame in life 
Is only carved in greatest strife. 
The fastest time is always made 
By those upon the downward grade. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 209 

THESE AWFUL PARTINGS. 



It is sad that trusting friends must sometime go apart 
And rend the very life-chords of each aching, bursting 

heart. 
Yet, down in the silent psychic life there are those sacred 

ties 
Of love that hear the tread of Time and have no sad 

good-byes. 

The forms may part and this old earth roll in between, 
and yet 

When all the racking shocks are past and Nature's sun 
has set, 

Down in the calm, sweet silence, 'mid the angels' voices 
ring 

The whispering tones of love that vibrate on each tight- 
ened string. 

Nor time, nor death, nor space can break the vibrant 

chords ingrown 
In hearts enwrapt in perfect bond; they ever grasp their 

own. 
No day so bright, no night so dark that soul cannot find 

soul 
In Life's eternal ebbing, flowing, boundless fountain bowl. 

No mountain peak so high that souls once linked shall 
break 

In climbing — lose each other's trail — when they from 
woe awake. 

There is no death to friendship true, though age on age 
roll by 

And friends pass on apart from view; aye! sweet friend- 
ship cannot die. 

Awake! oh, souls bowed down in woe! there is no place 

for grief. 
And soon in Time's embrace the busy mind will find relief. 
A mother loses from her breast a babe and weeps a year, 
And Time, the healer, touches her and dries the burning 

tear. 



210 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

'Tis sad to part when love enchains, for love its sacred 

part 
Must act in time and space upon the tender human heart, 
In crushed ambitions and dead hopes, that are but higher 

lights 
To beacon on to goals beyond, and lead to higher heights. 

At times the soul may fill the eyes with floods of scald- 
ing tears. 

And anguish rack the form and mind, but in the coming 
years, 

When every echoing sob has ceased to rend the peaceful- 
ness. 

Our trials, woes and pains will seem like things that 
came to bless. 

Immortal live our lives, but woe and pain we think so 

great 
Will paint our futures clear and bright if we can only 

wait, 
And days that seem so dark and drear at noon-time or at 

dawn, 
Will be forgotten as a curse, when they are past and gone. 



GET IN TOUCH WITH A BABY. 



If your life is getting drouthy and the earth seems dread- 
ful drear. 

If the days are dark and gloomy through each week and 
month and year. 

If your heart is getting callous and your spirit getting 
sour. 

Get in touch with some sweet baby and just love it every 
hour. 

If the wrinkles on your visage, that so plainly tell of age, 

Seem to haunt you with their coming till you feel all in a 
-rage; 

If you feel your strength is failing and your mind is los- 
ing power. 

Get in touch with some sweet baby and just love it every 
hour. 



DR. T. WILKINS: POEMS. 211 

If the light of life is fading and you seem just drifting on, 
Only waiting at the landing for the coming day to dawn, 
Only watching in impatience for a signal from the tower. 
Get in touch with some sweet baby and just love it every 
hour. 

If you feel unstrung and weary with the worry of the day; 

If you fail to solve the problems that pile up and in your 
way; 

If you wish to make life ever one grand green and fra- 
grant bower, 

Get in touch with some sweet baby and just love it every 
hour. 

If your heart beats slow and feebly and the days drag 

slowly by; 
If you seem a useless being with no aim but soon to die, 
With the bloom of earth departed as the faded, withered 

flower. 
Get in touch with some sweet baby and just love it every 

hour. 

If you never had a baby in your own expanse of life, 
And your struggle has been hopeless and an endless round 

of strife; 
If your drying soul seems needful of a pure, refreshing 

shower, 
Get in touch with some sweet baby and just love it every 

hour. 



MY GOD EVERYWHERE. 



I sit in the depth of silence as the busy world goes by 
And I lift my soul sublimely to elysian fields on high; 
I see my God in the flower, in the brooklet and the trees;- 
I sense my God in the stillness, I feel Him in the breeze. 

I hear my God in the wildwoods, in the songs of happy 

birds, 
In the sweet and peaceful twilight I hear His gentle words. 
I feel His loving life-breath inflate my very soul, 
I find Him in the pulsing of the great Eternar Whole. . 



212 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

WATCHING FOR ME. 



I try to drink calmly from Nature's great fount, 
And seldom look backward my woes to recount; 
I wish not to trouble the world with complaint, 
Or bring to the pure air of others a taint, 
But I'd give all this world this evening to see 
That sweet little face in the window for me; 
Watching for me. 

I know you'll excuse me for crying awhile, 
For I am too lonely to fashion a smile. 
And Time is the only allayer of woe; 
You'll pardon these teardrops of sadness, I know; 
But I'd give all the world this evening to see 
That sweet little face in the window for me; 
Watching for me. 

I try to be cheerful, submissive to law, 
And calmly of pleasures my portion to draw; 
I try to be manly and brush off the cloud 
That seems to surround me just like a death shroud, 
But I'd give ail this world this evening to see 
That sweet little face in the window for me; 
Watching for me. 

I know in the future, though Time may erase 
The contour of beauty from that baby face. 
No time can efface that sweet love that is mine 
To hold for that spirit, for that is Divine; 
But I'd give all this world this evening to see 
That sweet little face in the window for me; 
Watching for me. 

I touch these loved playthings — a marble, a ball. 
This trunk and this popcorn that hangs on the wall. 
And something arises within me — I weep. 
And pray to the Forces out in the Great Deep: 
Oh! I'd give all the world this evening to see 
That sweet little face in the window for me; 
Watching for me. 

To gladden the lives of his parents I'll waive 
All rights to wee Bobbie; I'll try to be brave. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 213 

And think that the right thing will surely not fail, 
And Infinite Goodness will ever prevail; 
But I'd give all the world this evening to see 
That sweet little face in the window for me; 
Watching for me. 



LAW RETRIBUTIVE. 



When she touched those little ringlets and those little 

hands she kissed; 
When she pressed them to her bosom with a love that can 

exist 
But within a mother's spirit, did she think they e'er 

would turn 
And in cold and cruel actions all her tender feelings 

spurn? 

As she watched them and grew weary through the night 

and livelong day, 
Did she ever think another could entice her babes away? 
Did she think the love they bore her could be smothered 

by a kind 
That only lights for mating in the youthful human mind? 

When she rubbed their little bodies, and she pinched 

their little toes, 
Did that mother ever wonder or for e'er once pre-suppose. 
That her sacred, tender feeling, and her loving words and 

thought, 
To her babes grown into manhood, would be wasted, would 

be naught? 

Oh, how cold must be the human, aye! how callous to the 

core. 
Who in passion or in calmness turns a mother from his 

door! 
Such must sometime, in full justice, be rewarded for his 

crime. 
And be taught a loving mother is a being most sublime. 

Ev'ry cloud of gloom and sorrow, ev'ry sneer and ev'ry 

spurn, 
He has cast upon his mother must upon his life return. 



214 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

Ev'ry tear of pain and anguish he has caused her soul to 

shed, 
Shall return in bitter sorrow in due time upon his head. 
> ^»» t 

YOUR MOTHER AVILL BE THERE. 



You may have a doubtful future, you may have a check- 
ered now; 

You may have your foolish notions and to evil make your 
bow; 

You may have your many failings and of troubles have 
your share, 

But please don't forget to notice, your old mother will be 
there. 

You may be too busy counting your increasing wealth to- 
day. 

To be mindful of the beggar who is sitting by the way; 

You may lose your all tomorrow in a great financial snare, 

But when you become a beggar your old mother will be 
there. 

You may lie upon a sick-bed with a fever running high; 
You may fall into the gutter and a helpless being lie; 
You may be a hopeless victim of the liquor demon's snare, 
While the world around deserts you — your old mother 
will be there. 

You may cast her out — a pauper — in this cold, unfeeling 
world, 

With your banners of false "goodness" to the public eye 
unfurled; 

You may curse her in your anger if your callous con- 
science dare. 

But when you have cooled a little, your old mother will be 
there. 

You may make yourself a demon of the deepest, darkest 

kind. 
And pass on to regions fitted to your calibre of mind; 
But before you in her glory, with her mother love and 

prayer. 
To uplift your soul from darkness, your old mother will 

be there. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 215 

CREDIT TO FATHER. 



No picture has more welcome place 
Upon the wall than mother's face; 
But there is one belongs beside, 
That ever smiles with manly pride, 
As If to still protect his bride; 

It is the face of Father. 

When weary days brought children's needs, 
And boyish plays and youthful deeds; 
When noble thoughts and manly aims. 
And future promises and claims 
Inspired for the higher fames. 

There came the hope of Father. 

When mother's hands were weak with toil 
That marked the day with midnight oil; 
When all our hungry forms were fed; 
When all were snugly tucked in bed 
And each one's "lay-me-down" was said. 
Then all was peace for Father. 

No angel face can fill the place 

Of mother of the human race; 

But still the fact remains the same, 

No mortal children ever came 

To live and be, and wear a name. 

Without some kind of Father 

Let mothers have all credit due 
For life and love's expression true; 
For smoothing down the rougher ways. 
For blessed peace in childhood's days, 
But give a little soulful praise 
And credit unto Father. 



A pompous man tyrannic rules 
O'er both the wise and witless fools, 
But he who rules with greatest power 
But rules with love each day and hour. 



216 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

THE LOST LOVE. 



Oh, where can I bury my sadness, 

My anguish, my sorrow, my woe, 
That floods my whole being with madness 

Wherever I dreamingly go? 

My soul seems a furnace of passion 

O'er love that is lost unto me; 
I often subdue it to fashion 

My thoughts to the duties that be. 

Then backward, oh, backward returning 

The agonies leaping the higher 
From resting, more deeply the burning. 

Till I am consumed with the fire. 

Again I subdue it with hoping, 

Believing my own to be mine; 
Though through the vast darkness still groping, 

I feel that true love is divine. 

I'll hope while this side of the portal, 

I'll hope on the evergreen shore. 
That my love in the spirit immortal 

Will come to my bosom once more. 

A love that is sweet and forgiving, 

A love that knew nothing impure, 
That made this earth-life worth the living, 

A love that will ever endure. 

A love that no green-eyed suspicion 
Can mar or can cast from its throne. 

And that grows through every condition. 
Is the love that must come as my own. 

No cold, brazen image of pleasure, 

No plaything nor cupid-like toy; 
Just love that is life's fullest measure, 

And without any jealous alloy. 

I seek but the best and the dearest 

That comes from the depth of the soul, 

I'll have but the free and the clearest 
To fill up my own fountain bowl. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 217 

I sigh and I weep with my yearning, 

For the love that once was so free, 
I hope for and wait its returning; 

The love that seems lost unto me. 



HAVE FAITH IN YOURSELF. 



(The following lines were written in 1890, on hearing 
a sermon preached by Rev. Sample, in Minneapolis on 
the subject of "Faith." 

Have courage, oh, mortal! 

Have faith in yourself. 
And reach for that portal 

On Nature's top shelf. 

Push back all thy sorrow, 

Change anger to mirth; 
Cast off what you borrow 

Of troubles of earth. 

Make pure your own spirit. 

You'll never be seen 
Nor known — never fear it — < 

As vile and unclean. 

And those who abuse you 

By scandal and slime. 
And wrongly accuse you, 

Will rue it in time. 

While justice may slowly 

Be moving along, 
The right, pure and holy, 

Is righting all wrong. 



"The burnt child dreads the fire' 
Applies to Christian folk. 

And to escape the ire 

Of God — 'twas only a joke. 



218 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

MY PRETTY BLUE-EYED NIECE. 




Katharine Meyers. 



I have tasted disappointments, 
and have wasted many tears 

In the coming and the going of 
my few allotted years; 

I have worried and have hur- 
ried to make others happy 
be, 

And have felt the cold discom- 
fort that they handed back 
to me, 

But there's one I find respons- 
ive, and I find such perfect 
peace 

When I look into the visage of 
my pretty blue-eyed niece. 



When I'm tired of the strug- 
gle and would lay me down to rest, 

When my soul is sad and weary with this human life at 
best. 

And I vainly hunt the silence o'er and o'er for something 
sweet; 

When I feel but cold suspicion and faint love from those 
I meet, 

I soon lose all sense of sadness and my spirit finds re- 
lease, 

When I look into the visage of my pretty blue-eyed niece. 

I can see the sun grow brighter and the stars take bright- 
er hue; 
I can feel my soul grow lighter, and my brain finds some- 
thing new; 
There's a something softly whispers, of a future full of 

weal; 
Of a soul of purest sweetness and of love, and then I feel 
As if lifted to the highest of earth-pleasure and of peace, 
When I look into the visage of my pretty blue-eyed niece. 

And that all the world may see her and her pretty win- 
some smile, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 219 

Which is not put on for winning, but is worn near all the 

while, 
Here is reproduced a photo, and please give expression 

true: 
Don't you think down in your spirit you could deeply love 

her too? 
Do you wonder all my troubles are subdued by perfect 

peace 
When I look into the visage of my pretty blue-eyed niece. 

And as life is calmly flowing, and my soul is floating on. 
There come visions of the changes, from the darkness 

unto dawn — 
Back to darkness — alternating — something bitter, some- 
thing sweet, 
But I know this life is better, and that mine is more com- 
plete, 
And I lose all sense of sadness in the light of perfect peace 
When I look into the visage of my pretty blue-eyed niece. 



DEATH'S QUERY. 



Who am I that the world so long has feared my silent 

tread? 
Who am I but the kindest friend of those on earth and 

they, the dead? 
Who am I that for ages gone the world has fought to 

hold me back. 
By incantations, force of mind, and potions of the science 

quack? 

I oft am slow, but always sure; sometimes the leases I 

extend. 
But come I must to everyone, the high, the low, but in 

the end 
I only seek to free the soul, and let it go, and fly away 
To realms beyond this little globe: Am I a friend or foe, 

I pray? 

I sometimes tarry by the way to touch some bully who 
Seems not to think of life nor time, and would escape his 
due; 



220 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But facing me a change comes on that would make cow- 
ards laugh; 

And such I love to face and touch with my old magic 
staff. 

And oft when I a babe discern whose route is rough 

through life, 
I pluck it from the parent stem and save it earthly strife, 
And, too, when man by shrewdness gains in earthly 

v/ealth the goal, 
I love to whisper in his ear the words that touch his soul. 

Sometimes when I a human find whose life of toil and 

woe 
Has been too dark, I think it right to let his spirit go 
And search the spheres in other realms for comfort and 

for weal, 
And things for which he fought and bled on earth with 

earnest zeal. 

Oh, mortal man, with wisdom filled it seems so very 

strange 
That you should fear my presence, when I only bring a 

change, 
I hold no thought of cold revenge or hatred toward a 

thing, 
I only come to all of life a peace, a rest to bring. 



"There's no flies on Jesus," runs salvation's song. 
Then if Jesus sees us tempted all day long, 
He will quite release us from the awful wrong 
Of thinking, and to please us pass us with the throng. 
They're but a pest at very best, 
And Jesus knows their song. 

A conscientious slave is man 
Who toils and knows not, when he can. 
That someone else the harvest reaps 
While he to conscience clings and sleeps. 

If each would pursue the good and the true 
The world that is blind would soon see 

The man that is good would be if he could, 
A man of perfection in re. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 
MY LITTLE BOY, LEO. 



221 




LEO. 



From the golden past 
come echoes of a 
hope-inspired joYi 

When a man, now in 
his midday, was a 
careless little boy; 

When the dim and 
misty future, held 
within no conscious 
place, 

And the gladsome 
smile of Nature 
wafted o'er that 
childish face. 

Here's his picture, 
quite expressive, very 
sober for a lad. 

Just the image of his 
mother, with a tinc- 
ture of his dad; 

He had been down to 
the brooklet, in the 
mud and water, too, 

With hisclothingsoiled 
and ragged and his 
knees a-peeking 
through. 



Just a common little urchin, that one often has to meet, 
With the stuff there down within him to accomplish any 

feat; 
With the metal men are made of there unfolding day by 

day. 
In the puddle of the brooklet with the other lads at play. 

Underneath those boyish features, underneath that rag- 
ged suit, 

Plainly pictured lie the budding of the present human 
fruit. 



222 DR. T. WILKNS' POEMS. 

See his finger through the hat-rim, unwashed face and 

uncombed hair; 
See that look of boyish mischief that foretells the do anc 

dare. 

Aye! my mind goes back with pleasure o'er those dear old 

days of yore, 
And I see my wee boy, Leo, with his dirty face once more, 
And all sorrow, pain and anguish I have passed are naught 

to me; 
In my dreaming I am living in the time that used to be. 

He has grown to manhood's stature and beyond the bare- 
foot boy. 

But there lingers still in mem'ry those sweet days of 
blessed joy. 

And in spirit we are ever as a unit sailing on; 

One upon the noon-day life-line, one within a new-life's 
dawn. 

'Tis the same familiar story, told and re-told o'er and 

o'er: 
Once a baby always baby in the parent's mem'ry store; 
Though they grow mature and stately and away from 

childhood's place. 
Ever cling to parent vision pictures of the baby face. 



IS LOVE A PASSION? 



If to love is only madness, only jealousy and hate; 
If 'tis filled with dark suspicion for a tender, loving mate. 
Then I do hot crave its poison or possession of its fangs, 
For in me there is no feeling to give cruel prods and 
pangs. 

If true love is but a passion of the human, not divine; 
If it is a lust-vibration along production's line. 
Then 'tis not a lasting power that can only work for good; 
Then 'tis not a thing of spirit as the world has under- 
stood. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 223 

Unto me it is forgiveness, and 'tis charity sublime; 

It is all of life worth living, and enduring through all 

time; 
It means sacrifice unselfish; it means suffering and pain; 
And means the soul's enrichment for a future growth and 

gain. 

It must ever mean a kindness that endures through end- 
less woe, 

And must stand for smiles of gladness that will make its 
wearer glow; 

It must elevate the spirit from its earthly prison door, 

Or to love is but a passion and should pass for nothing 
more. 



WHAT IS DEATH? 



What is Death? Sometime a much sought boon, 
A change that cannot come too soon, 
A sort of sleep that comes to save 
The torture of a weary mortal slave. 

What is Death? Sometimes a great relief 
From woe and pain and deepest grief, 
A welcome friend with touch sublime, 
On mercy mission sent by time. 

What is Death? Sometimes a tidal wave 
That carries pure and wicked to the grave, 
A terror to the world yet blind, 
A visitor to all mankind. 

What is Death? Sometimes a sad, sad change 
In the household, a sort of strange 
Tearing away of best loved kin 
From our vision, when Death comes in. 

What is Death? Sometimes a quiet release 
From bonds of earth to heights of peace, 
And yet 'tis woe the darkest kind 
To those whom Death has left behind. 



224 Dr. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

DON'T. 



Don't train your guns on Jesus and the Bible, nor on 

Rome, 
Till you clear away he rubbish lying loose around your 

home, 
For the world will only measure by the things they hear 

and see, 
And will not endoi^e the shadow of the folks we claim 

to be. 

Don't storm around the threshold of the church and curse 

the creed 
Till you formulate and fashion and produce from better 

seed, 
Something free from fraud's pollution, something that 

can stand the test; 
Just present the very purest and the world will do the 

rest. 

Don't paw the air in ecstasy at scandal in the church. 
Till you know you are above it, and 'tis clean around 

your perch. 
Don't criticise your brother for kowtowing to a Pope, 
While you blindly follow sirens down the everlasting 

slope. 

Don't glory in the downfall of a mortal, though a foe. 
For you'll find Fate at the throttle with his freight of 

human woe. 
And you cannot tell what moment your own trestle work 

may break. 
And with that same brother mortal you your fatal tumble 

take. 

Don't climb so high the mountain of your personal con- 
ceit 

That you think you have the only and the safest higher 
seat, 

Lest the zephyr of true justice softly whistles 'round the 
base 

And removes the false foundation with a true and easy 
grace. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 225 

Don't burst your shell with thinking that in knowledge 

you have all, 
When in fact, in truth and wisdom, you have just begun 

to crawl. 
And forever out beyond you there is always more to 

learn; 
Don't forget this planet doesn't on your human axis 

turn. 



WHEN WE PARTED AT THE DOOR. 



E'en the weather seemed to mock me, and my spirit took 

a fall, 
While a cloud went flitting o'er me like a dark and gloomy 

pall; 
My heart sank down within me as it never sank before 
And my eyes began to moisten, when we parted at the 

door. 

With our hearts so close together in a fond good-bye em- 
brace, 
With our spirits intermingled and our egoes face to face, 
I shall ne'er forget the feeling, though I live forevermore. 
For a something seemed to choke me, as we parted at the 
door. 

We had been so closely tethered as the busy hours went by 

That the pulling at the parting could but make a firmer 
tie. 

It just seemed to stir the sweetness of our souls in Na- 
ture's store, 

To be mingled with the bitter when we parted at the door. 

It is sweet to be united in a bond of holy love. 

With the angels overwatching from their peaceful homes 

above; 
It is sweet to sense a sanction as it comes from shore to 

shore, 
But there still remains the impress of that parting at the 

door. 



^2 6 DR. T. WLKINS' POEMS. 

COME BACK TO ME, BOBBY! 



Come, speak to me, Bobby! I'm lonely to-night 
This silence a wretchedness brings. 

Come back to me, Bobby! Come back into sight. 
Here are all your baby playthings. 

Your nice little ark, your trunk and your shoe, 
Your little bath-tub and your cane; 

Your ball and your popcorn, your pail, given you, 
They call you, but call you in vain. 

Ah! Time, the old robber, has borne you away. 

And out of your babyhood time, 
And left me so lonely to watch and to pray 

Among all these playthings sublime. 

How fleeting are pleasures; now here and now gone; 

To-day the great sun shines so bright; 
The baby, my angel is fast passing on, 

And leaving my soul in the night. 

He hugged me and kissed me, and watched with 

such joy, 
For my turn round the corner at night; 
Oh, where, this long evening, is dear Bobby boy? 
Oh, where is that dear face of light? 

I'm not his own father; I know this too well; 

But out of the Eternal Whole 
Has come this sweet spirit to soothe me a spell, 

To lead on and upward my soul. 

These things that you played with have voiced unto 
me, 

The love that we bear, o'er and o'er. 
They bring back your spirit o'erflowlng with glee. 

And soothe down my lone heart once more. 

I dream as I watch them, and see that sweet face, 

And sometime I sob and I weep; 
For away down within me is such a void place, 

I sense it in spirit in sleep. 



DR. T. WILKNS' POEMS. 227 

I love them ; I hold them as treasures to me, 
When lonely and bowed down in gloom. 

For with them forever thy love seems to be, 
And each in my spirit has room. 



THE EVER OPEN DOOR. 



'Tis a pleasant contemplation, 

That within we have great powers. 
And an infinite foundation; — 

That Eternity is ours. 
'Tis a comfort to be mortal 

And to know that we are more, 
And that at the spirit portal 

Is an ever open door. 

'Tis a matter of great pleasure 

Just to feel and see and know 
That we sometime gain our measure 

In this Life's great onward flow, 
And that justice, though oft slowly. 

Comes to each upon some shore. 
And the rich, or poor and lowly. 

Get their own and nothing more. 

When the storms of life are raging 

And the clouds obscure the sun. 
And the elements engaging 

In a battle just begun, 
There is pleasure then in knowing 

That the battle cannot last, 
And the sunlight will be glowing 

When the tempest height is past. 

Though the slaps and stabs are galling 

When one's soul is in the Cause, 
Let us not forget our calling 

And from our great labor pause; 
Though a word be harsh, don't mind it, 

For when said 'tis on the wing. 
And the motive that's behind it 

May not have so sharp a sting. 



228 DR. T. WLKINS' POEMS. 

When the world is dark and dreary 

And each friend seems turned to foe, 
You will find the sunlight cheery 

If you let your own soul glow. 
For the love within kept burning 

Will ignite another soul 
And brings back with its returning 

All its own, refined and whole. 

Out in Nature's great expansion 

There is room for all to grow, 
And within that mighty mansion 

Take a choice of weal or woe; 
Neither caste nor color holding, — 

Only acts and nothin:; more — 
Count with character here molding. 

At Eternal Nature's door. 



LOVE KNOWS NO LAW BUT ITS OWN. 



"Love, like genius, knows no law but its own." 

— A. J. Davis. 

It may be I ought to lose it, but I hope and weep and pray 
That the love I prized not fully will not pass from me 

away. 
If in thoughtless, careless moment I let slack that tender 

cord 
Of life, I will submit to aught that will bring me just 

reward. 

If I did break a trust or troth that breathed of loyalty, 
I willingly submit to all the woe and pain it brings to me. 
And still love on with heart bowed down and soul en- 
tombed to-day, 
But for return of Love's sweet tie will hope and weep and 
pray. 

The deep regrets that throng the mind, of thoughts and 
words and deeds 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 229 

That make the spirit sink within and pierce the heart 

that bleeds, 
Already with their vicious stabs, are only justly due 
To those who taste of purest love and be not to it true. 

A deeper pang than that we give to those whose love is 

pure 
A thousand-fold shall be received — 'tis only just — 'tis 

sure, 
And yet a love that bears not mercy with it far above 
All other traits to temper wrath, is not the perfect love. 

Oh, loving soul! O, trusting heart! Though parted thou 

shouldst be 
Through time and space will ever flit thine own in search 

of thee. 
Though eyes of flesh may see thee not, may not behold thy 

face 
Still in that loving, saddened soul thou hast eternal place. 



BASHFULNESS. 



It is awful to be bashful and faint-hearted in life's race; 
It is painful to be awkward when occasion calls for grace; 
But there's something so unnerving in a sweet and pretty 
face. 

That one cannot stop that sinking 
In the silence, and a-thinking 
That he'd give the world to vanish from this "bloomin' " 
earthly place. 

Life must be a dreadful failure, and a chain of linking 

woes. 
To a youth with deep affection and a bashfulness that 

grows. 
As he treads along the pathway on the tips of tender toes. 
And the world so full of pleasure 
And of sweetness he could treasure. 
If he had no bashful feelings when his soul a-sparking 
goes. 



230 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

THE PRESENCE OF LOVE. 



As I sat in my quiet sanctum one night in a shower of 
waves, 

I sensed a sweet presence, a being whose aura my spirit 
enslaves, 

And I, in true sympathy greeted, and loaned her my in- 
nermost soul 

To bask in the light of, and linger around my great foun- 
tain bowl. 

I kissed this sweet presence, embraced her, and held her 
so long on my breast. 

For she looked very tired and weary, and needed to coddle 
to rest. 

Oh, the touch of true spirit to spirit fills life full of pleas- 
ure and wealth, 

As the touch of the forms interblended brings thrills of 
perfection and health. 

Aye, with this dear, hungry presence I sat all the evening 
alone. 

And felt the sweet touch and the hunger — I seemed to 
be feeding my own: 

How pleasant to sit in the silence and drink deep the nec- 
tar that flows 

From this sweet presence anhungered, while each toward 
Infinity grows. 

Again the sweet presence imbued me with vibrant sensa- 
tions of light. 

When my brain grew so weary with thinking and I lay 
down to sleep that night: 

She came with the fragrance of roses, and put her dear 
hand into mine. 

And our souls just wove in together as one in perfection 
divine. 

So oft I can feel that dear presence and sense the sweet 

fragrance she brings; 
Aye, be she in mortal or spirit, her angelic soul to mine 

clings: 



DR. T. WILKNS' POEMS. 231 

It makes this life brighter and sweeter to meet her and 

touch her at times. 
And I gather a new inspiration that lifts me to heavenly 

climes. 

Ah! I am certain I know her, have seen her sometime in 

the past; 
We glanced at each other while floating, but each one was 

going so fast 
Toward the realms of the spirit we only were looking 

ahead and above; 
But, I recognize now this sweet presence: 'tis truly the 

presence of LOVE! 



THE MORTAL GREAT INCLINE. 



Why cannot mankind be brothers and be sisters every 
day, 

As they float along together o'er this earth-life's ocean 
way? 

Why should not we all be angels — as in souls we are 
divine, 

And are gliding on together down the mortal Great In- 
cline? 

Why should not we give the hand-clasp' to our brothers, 

weak and down, 
When beneath the surging billows we are liable to drown? 
Why not buoy them with true courage and thus make their 

spirits shine, 
As We glide along together down the mortal Great Incline? 

None can be an angel ever in some other, higher sphere. 
If the angel is not in him and propeling him right here. 
No one needs to feel important when he hears a brother 

whine, 
For they must pass on together down the mortal Great 

Incline. 

None can miss it, lest too early he may sink beneath a 
wave; 



232 DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 

But e'en then he finds the doorway to the same old timely 

grave, 
And in passing o'er the landing must observe the wise 

design 
In ALL gliding on together down the mortal Great Incline. 

We may struggle to be youthful in the form as well as 

soul, 
But we find the finger imprints of old Time's eternal roll. 
Marking somewhere on the mortal in the furrows coarse 

and fine. 
That we, too, are passing onward down the mortal Great 

Incline. 
It is grand old Nature's edict; it is evolution's plan, 
To move on in endless cycles, disregarding mortal man. 
Who, a little, helpless creature, is compelled to fall in 

line, 
And move on like other driftwood down the mortal Great 

Incline. 



HER WILLIIE IS HER LOVER. 



Little Willie, clinging closely to his loving mother's breast. 
Asked her where he came from, and till answered gave 

no rest. 
He has cast upon his mother must upon his life return. 

As she gave him all the details in the terms he understood 
From the standpoint of Dame Nature, as a careful mother 

should. 
Both his childish ej^es grew brighter with the knowledge 

of the law, 
And his mother grew much dearer, as their kinship clear 

he saw; 
Till his sweet and loving nature could withstand the 

silent bliss 
No longer, and he said: "Mamma!" as he gave her kiss 

on kiss. 

Thus the little bud was opened to the knowledge of its 
being, 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 233 

And he was his mother's lover from the moment of his 
seeing, 

And he afterward informed her, with the wisdom of a 
sage. 

That he knew he'd been her lover in some former earthly- 
age, 

And that he should always be so, and they'd meet again 
some day. 

Soon the spirit took departure from the youthful bit of 
clay, 

But she often sees her lover at the parting of the veil. 

And answers every beckon of her darling Willie's hail. 



PRESS FORWARD! PAUSE NOT! 



Don't pause on the track to weep or look back 
At the troubles that lie far behind you, 

For time moves right on; your woes are soon gone. 
And other small troubles will find you. 

Each moment you weep or lose precious sleep 
O'er things that have gone on forever. 

You lose valued time for pleasure sublime; 
Just smile on in firmer endeavor. 

Don't pause to debate while good things await. 
And are challenging your attention; 

There's ever in view a something to do; 
Despondence is only prevention. 

Be loyar and true to friends oldand new. 

And keep all your kind thoughts in motion; 

Press forward and srive in spirit to thrive. 
And soon the world sees your devotion; 

All aims pure and high you'll gain by and by. 
No treasure of truth is forbidden. 

The weal and he woe together must go. 
Though one in the other be hidden. 

Recall not the past the future to blast. 

But hope on through every condition, 
The goal is attained and life's purpose gained 
. By strife, as the price of Fruition. 



234 



DR. T. WLKINS' POEMS. 




OUR HYDESVILLE HOME. 



In this lonely little cottage there occurred the greatest 

birth 
That has ever been recorded in the annals of the earth. 
There began the real knowledge of the spirit's future 

state. 
And a knowledge that our loved ones only linger at the 

gate; 
Yes, a knowledge that the doorway to the future is ajar. 
And we need not longer wonder where our friends and 

kindred are. 



In this rustic little cottage where the Foxes had their 

home. 
Came the spirit of a peddler in his rounds of conscious 

roam, 
And he heard the children playing after they had gone to 

bed. 
Then he rapped upon the footboard, and he rapped upon 

the head; 
He persisted in his rapping till they heard, then all were 

still. 
Then the peddler went to rapping with an added strength 

Of will. 



DR. T. WILKINS' POEMS. 235 

When at last the door was opened and the children talked 

to him, 
And the household, long in darkness as to death that 

looked so grim, 
Like the budding flowers welcome both the sunshine and 

the rain, 
They just welcomed that old peddler, and then bade him 

call again; 
Well, he called, and rapped and chatted, and more wisely 

than he knew. 
And the curtains of the future, through his chatting there 

withdrew. 

In the dear old Hydesville cottage where the Fox girls 

lived when small. 
Came the knowledge that the future is eternal life for all. 
And all lovers of this knowledge who are true to truth 

and right. 
Must ever feel the sacredness of cottage and of site. 
We may differ in opinions of the small things in our code. 
But the facts about the future are from seeds those chil- 
dren sowed. 

Though the wind should blow the cottage to destruction, 

it remains 
In the minds of all as freshly, and its reverence attains 
To a higher place as yearly, with our hearts brimful of 

glee. 
We assemble to do homage to the birthplace of the three. 
Who in innocence of childhood caught those messages of 

love 
From the peddler who discovered he had only gone above. 

Oh, the dear decaying cottage must succumb to age and 
time. 

But in death 'twill grow more sacred and its mem'ry more 
sublime. 

And we'll gather up the fragments that shall strew about 
the earth. 

Of that blessed home where spirit of a mortal proved its 
birth. 

And we'll place them where the children that shall follow 
in the race 

Will observe their sacred presence and be filled with lov- 
ing grace. 



236 INDEX TO POEMS 



INDEX TO POEMS, 



A Bachelor's Reverie 200 

Abolish the Slipper 97 

A Christmas Dream 142 

A Christmas Poem 37 

Advice From My Father In Soul Land 172-173 

A Few More Years 103 

Afraid to Die? 98 

A Friend 116 

After Thanksgiving — A Vision 137-138 

Alone With Soul 131 

A Mosquito Unto Man 152-153 

A Mother's Hand 17 

A Mother Left Alone ,^ 44 

An Echo Song 163 

Anniversary Poem 109-110-111-112-113 

Are Not All Souls Immortal? 100 

As a Dewdrop to the Rose 147 

A Scandalmonger at the Gate 91-92-93-94 

As We Make It We Will Find It 14 

A Sweet Little Baby Asleep 140 

A Talk With the Pansies 41 

At the Grave 20 

At the Poor-House Door 52 

A Touching Sermon 139 

Aunt Chloe's Transition 22 

Autobiographical 3-4 

Baby Glen 135 

Backward and Forward, O Time! 2 4 

Bashfulness 229 

Beautiful Life — Anniversary Poem 87 

Be Patient With Your Mother 3 

Biblical "Ifs" 194 

Carlo's Lecture 180-181 

Cheer for the Departed 206 

Come Back to Me, Bobby! 226 

Consolation to Mourners 157 

Credit to Father 215 

Death and Sadness 193 

Death Has Lost Its Sting 187 

Death's Query 219 

Decoration Day 191 

Dedicatory 6 

Dey Kaint Be No Hell! 169 

Don't 224 



INDEX TO POEMS. 237 

Don't Disgrace the Dead 204 

Edith's Philosophy 35 

Ef I Wuz God 'n God Wuz Me ! ! ! !il9 

Ef You only Got De Dough 66 

Equal At the Grave - 192 

Experience 166 

Fond Memories 105 

Fortune and Fate 9 

Get In Touch With a Baby 210 

God — Man 12 

Hab Dey Quarantined Dat Manshun? 15 

Harmony 9 

Have Faith In Yourself 217 

Have I Lived Before? 121-122 

He Calmly "Ups and Dies" 149-150 

Her Willie Is Her Lover 23 2 

If I Were Only Satan 174 

I Kaint Pray Any Mo' 11 

I Kaint See Nuthin' In It 164 

Index to Poems 3 6-3 7-3 8-3 9 

Ingersoll In Heaven 73-74-75-7 6-77-78-79-80-81 

In the Prison Cell 198 

In the Sweet and Golden Sometime , 36 

Introduction 1-2 

Invocation 7-8 

Invocation 107-108 

Invocation — To Almighty Dollar 71 

Is Carlo In Heaven? 179 

I Should Like To Be the Devil 167-168 

I's er Human, Jis' er Roomin' 2 07 

Is Love a Passion? 222 

It Must Leave You at the Tomb 48 

1 Tread! I Tread! I Tread! .' 70 

"Joe's" Sermon 183-184 

Julius Caesar 89 

King Dollar , 99 

Law Retributive 213 

Let's Love Him 199 

Let Us Fill Our Highest Mission 64-65 

Life and Little Man 102 

Like Mother Made of Yore 5 6 

Lines On the Death of My Mother 188 

Lottie and I 170 

Love Knows No Law But Its Own 228 

Loving Thoughts 13 

Make Peace With Your Soul 160 

McKinley and Czolgosz 5 3-5 4-5 5-56 

Mother and the Voices 47 

Mother, Father and Sister 5 

My Little Boy, Leo 221 

Mother — My Savior 33 

Mother Nature 113 

Mother Nature's Child 63 

My Beautiful Little Friend 151 



238 INDEX TO POEMS. 

My Dear Dog Joe 182 

My God Everywhere 211 

My Home 130 

My Mother's Hand 16 

My Mother's Spirit Home — A Vision .12 7-12 8 

My Own Baby, Leo 161 

My Pretty Blue-Eyed Niece 218 

Now Doan Yo' Git Excited .' 31 

New Year's Dream 201 

No Color Line Around the Mansion Door 136 

Odo to Motherhood 62 

Old Black Joe In Sorrow 195 

Our Ancestors 60 

Our Hydesville Home 2 3 4-23 5 

Our Kind of a God 39-40 

Our World Is As We Make It 148 

Perfect Love 2 05 

Pity For Jesus 156 

Prayer and Resignation 165 

Press Forward! Pause Not! 233 

Query and Conclusion 2 8-2 9 

Retrospection 162 

Rex, the Knowing Spaniel, Prays 185-186 

Ring Out, Ye Christmas Bells! 8 6 

Sad, Yet Beautiful! 126 

St. Peter's Bouncer 15 4-155 

Silver Memories 2 6 

So Appalling 145 

Some of Our Needs 197 

Some Pointed Don'ts 203 

Song of the Turkey 158-159 

Soul Culture 190 

Sweet Dreams '..37 

Sweet Regrets 3 2 

Thankful 96 

Thankfulness 116 

That Face On the Wall 11 

That Little Baby Hand 175 

That Mother'n-Law 81-82 

That Spectre 143-144 

The Babies Discovered 208 

The Best Place for Your Troubles 5 8 

The Blue Time and the Bright Time 2 02 

The Color Soul 57 

The Criminal — Doomed! 123 

The Dear Propitious Now 146 

The Ever Open Door 227 

The Good Old Way 129 

The Lost Love 216 

The Miser's Doom 196 

The Mother Was There 132 

The Mortal Great Incline 231 

The Old Man Dreams 117-118 

The Orphan's Two Mothers 18 



INDEX TO POEMS. 239 

The Pauper's Appeal 49 

The Pendulum of Birth ..27 

The Poor-House In Sight 50-51 

The Presence of Love 230 

There Is No Death 46 

There Is No Death 69 

The Song of Silence 59 

The Soul of Things 19 

The Soul of Things 133 

The Tale of a Shirt 177-178 

The Turkey's Prayer 16 

The Turkey's Prayer 86 

They Are My Angels, All 94 

The Winner Over There 13 4 

These Awful Partings 209 

Those Dear Old Songs 83-84-85 

Those Vacant places 10 

Those Little Ringlets of Hair 68 

Through Holidays 141 

Time Was— Time Is 21 

To Minnie — Newly Wed 176 

To Rise Again 3 8 

To Sweeten Life 106 

Troubles of Its Own 62 

Turned His Mother Out 95 

Uncle Ben Sees His "Shadder" 88 

Uncle Doc's Little Man 189 

Uncle Eph's Philosophy 124 

Uncle Josh Discusses Hell 114-115 

Uncle Josh's Dream 42-43 

Voice of a Mate 17 

Waiting, Dreaming, Going, Greeting 2 3 

Watching for Me 212 

What Are Tears? 61 

What Is Death? 223 

What Is Love? 67 

When Our Mother Passes On 101 

When I Embark 12 

When Reunion Time Appears 105 

When We Parted At the Door 225 

Where Is God? QQ 

Why Should I Mourn? 126 

Willie's Dream 171 

Will Come Back to Me 34 

William Ewart Gladstone 2 5 

Your Mother Will Be There 214 



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